by Scott Pratt
”Yes.”
”Hi, this is Matthew Miller with the Johnson City Police Department. Haven’t seen you in a while. You okay these days?”
I knew Matthew Miller. I knew most of the cops in Johnson City.
”I’m fine, Officer Miller. Tell me you found my daughter’s car.”
”A 2001 Chrysler Sebring, maroon in color, Washington County plate number QRS-433?”
”It was stolen last night.”
”Well, sir, I’m afraid I have some more bad news.
We found it wrecked this morning off of Knob Creek Road. Went down an embankment and rolled across a creek. Ended up against a tree. I’d say it’s totaled, and—”
”What about the driver?”
”No driver,” Miller said. ”No trace. Any idea who was behind the wheel?”
”It was probably my sister. She disappeared sometime last night.”
”I thought she was locked up.” Sarah was infamous. Everybody knew her.
”She got out a couple of weeks ago. She was staying here.”
”I guess no good deed goes unpunished,” Miller said. ”We’re pretty much finished up here. I’m going to have the car towed down to Brown’s Mill Chevron. You can take it from there. The air bags inflated and there’s no blood, so if it was your sister, she probably made it out okay.”
”Thanks. Can you send somebody out here to take a report? She took some jewelry, too.”
”Probably be best if you just call 911,” he said.
”They’ll send the right people.”
I thanked Miller and hung up.
”She wrecked it,” I said to Caroline. ”She wrecked Lilly’s car. I’m calling the cops. I’m through with her.”
”I’ve heard that before.”
”I’m serious. She committed two felonies under my roof. She stole and wrecked my daughter’s car and stole your necklace. With her record, they’ll ship her off to the penitentiary where she belongs. She won’t see the light of day again for at least four years, maybe longer.”
”Are you sure that’s what you want to do?” Caroline said. ”I don’t want you beating yourself up about it later.”
I picked up the phone and dialed 911.
June 9
10:00 a.m.
Two days later I got a call from a drug enforcement agent I’d known for ten years. He said they’d picked Sarah up in a crack house on Wilson Avenue around midnight on Monday night. He thought I might like to know.
I drove straight to the jail. On the way, my cell phone rang. It was Diane Frye.
”The answer is yes,” she said when I picked up the phone. ”John Paul Tester Junior owns a silver 2005 Dodge Ram pickup.” It was the same color, make, and model of the truck that had almost run over me.
”So what else did you find out about him?”
”Born December 1, 1972, to John Paul and Debra Jean Tester in Newport. His mother died of ovarian cancer when the boy was only two. Raised by his father, who was a journeyman welder when he wasn’t preaching the gospel. When he was on the road, which was often, Junior stayed with an aunt.
Talked to the aunt, nice lady named Wanda Smithers who has since moved to Ocala, Florida. She said Junior idolized his daddy. She said the boy’s favorite thing to do when he was a boy was to go to church and listen to his daddy preach. Said he’d sit on the front row and hang on every word.
”By the time Junior was ten years old, he was already studying the Bible and ‘testifying’ for his father. Started preaching when he was a teenager.
When he wasn’t preaching, he spent almost all of his time in his room. Never had a girlfriend, didn’t show any interest in any school activities or sports. The gospel was his whole life. The aunt says that after he got out of high school, Junior and his father started traveling together. They preached all over the Southeast. She says they’re somewhat of a legend among the fundamentalists.”
”Damn, Diane, you got all that in two days?”
”It’s my charm and personality. That and the fact that the aunt talked my ear off.”
”Anything else?”
”The aunt said she visited last year for a weekend.
Said Junior stayed in his room and studied, just like when he was a boy. She also said Daddy Tester wasn’t as committed to the faith as Junior. She said he tended to drink heavily every so often and that he liked the ladies.”
”I wonder if the son knew about that,” I said.
”Probably. Be kind of hard to hide for an entire lifetime. I also talked to a couple of people down at the Cocke County sheriff’s department. Daddy Tester apparently had some political clout and got Junior his job. He’s been there for more than ten years as a chaplain. He counsels the officers, works with inmates at the jail, that sort of stuff. The people I talked to said everybody down there thinks Junior’s a nut job. He apparently won’t talk about anything but the gospel, and since his daddy was killed, he hardly talks at all.”
”Anything violent?”
”No criminal record. The aunt said he’s gentle.
Doesn’t remember him ever even getting into a fist fight. But she said he’s changed since his father’s death. She came up for the funeral and said he acted awfully strange.”
”Thanks. Send me a bill.”
”It’s already in the mail.”
A half hour after I got off the phone with Diane, a guard brought Sarah into the interview room. She looked like she’d aged fifteen years. When she saw I was there, she didn’t bother to sit at the table, she just put her hands over her face and slid down the wall onto the floor. The sight of her no longer made me sad. All I felt was anger.
”Have a good time?” I said.
”Fuck you.”
”Fuck me? That’s great. You did a nice job on Lilly’s car. I really appreciate that.”
”Yeah, well, tell her I’m sorry. I haven’t driven in a while.”
”Where’s Caroline’s necklace?”
”Gone.”
”Gone where? Who’d you sell it to?”
”Like I’d tell you.”
”Did you sell it or trade it?”
”What difference does it make?”
”I’d like to get it back.”
”Not a chance.”
”Are you really that far gone, Sarah? Do you really not give a damn about anything anymore? That necklace may mean nothing but a quick fix to you, but it meant a lot to Caroline, and I’d like to have it back.”
She uncovered her face and glared at me.
”The only person that necklace meant anything to was you. It was just you showing everyone what a successful big shot you were, buying an expensive trinket. Do you really think it meant anything to her?
You tried the same shit with me. Oh, come live with us, Sarah. Come stay with my perfect little family.
We’ll buy you stuff if you don’t get high. We’ll take care of you. What a crock. You can’t buy people, Joey. You’re so fucking pathetic.”
I’d gotten up and was leaning against the block wall, contemplating my fingernails. Sarah had long ago perfected the art of the addict’s vitriolic tirade.
The words floated past me like tiny ghosts. I didn’t allow them to linger.
”I came up here for a couple of reasons,” I said.
”The first is to tell you what you’ve done, in case you don’t fully understand the situation. Stealing the car was a C felony, minimum three years, maximum six in your range. Stealing the necklace was another C felony, same sentence. With your priors and my connections at the district attorney’s office, I think I can convince them to push for consecutive sentences at the top of the range. No more six months in the county jail and you’re out to do it again, Sarah.
You’re going to the penitentiary for twelve years.
You’ll be at least fifty when you get out, if you live that long. I’m going to see to it personally.”
I’d represented her five times in the past, each time telling myself I’d never do
it again. I’d always managed to get her sentences reduced, to get them to go as easy on her as possible. But this time was different. I felt genuinely betrayed, and although I wasn’t proud of it, I wanted a little retribution.
The words I’d spoken seemed to sink slowly into her addled brain. She pulled her knees up to her chest and rocked against the wall. Then she began to whimper.
”You can’t do that to me, Joey. You can’t. I won’t survive.”
”Sure you will. You always have.”
”I’m sick, Joey. You know I’m sick. Tell Lilly and Caroline I’m sorry. I’ll get a job and pay you back.”
”Too late. Last straw, Sarah. I’m through with you.”
”You’ve said that before. You don’t mean it. You’re the one person who’s never given up on me. You can’t give up on me, Joey.”
”My name is Joe,” I said. ”I stopped being Joey a long time ago, when I grew up. You should give it a try.”
The crying turned into a mournful wailing. Tears were streaming down her face and she was banging her head against the wall. The guard came to the doorway.
”Everything all right in here?”
”Yeah, I was just leaving. Mind letting me out?”
He unlocked the steel door and I stepped through.
Sarah’s sobs were almost unbearable. I quickened my pace as I walked down the hall to the stairwell and pushed the door open. Just before it closed, I heard her yell.
”Joey! You’re supposed to protect me!”
June 12
2:15 p.m.
News travels fast in the law enforcement community, both good and bad. The word was that Joe Dillard’s sister had been popped again, only this time Dillard and his family were the victims.
Agent Landers regarded Dillard as a self-righteous prick who spent his life defending the scumbags Landers was trying to put away. As far as Landers was concerned, Dillard was as bad as the people he represented. When Landers heard Dillard had been hired to represent Angel Christian, he almost puked.
He hated the thought of having to deal with Dillard through discovery and through a trial. But when Landers heard Dillard’s sister had been arrested, it cheered him up. He immediately called the jail and found out she hadn’t made bond. Then he called the jail administrator and asked her to move Dillard’s sister into the same cell block as Angel Christian. The administrator said it would be no problem, so Landers waited a couple of days and then went down to pay Miss Dillard a little visit.
He had the guards bring her to an interrogation room. Her shoulders were rounded and slumped and her eyes were blank. Still, she was definitely good-looking enough to fuck. And wouldn’t that have been sweet, laying the wood to Dillard’s sister?
She sat there like a stone, not looking at Landers.
He thought he’d wait her out and let her talk first, but after a few minutes it was obvious she wasn’t going to say a word.
”You’re Joe Dillard’s sister,” Landers finally said.
”What about it?” she said without looking up.
”I hear he had you locked up.”
She didn’t respond. Landers watched her closely, trying to see whether she was silently agreeing with him.
”You haven’t asked who I am, Miss Dillard.”
”I don’t care who you are.”
”You should. I’m the man who could get you out of here.”
She looked up for the first time. ”And why would you do that?”
”I need some help. You need some help. You help me, I’ll help you. Simple as that. I can offer you two things: a ticket out of jail and a chance to get back at your brother. Should I keep talking?”
Her eyes narrowed. ”I don’t trust lawyers.”
”I’m not a lawyer. I’m an agent with the Tennessee Bureau of Investigation.”
”I trust cops even less than I trust lawyers.”
”Suit yourself. I’m sure I can find somebody else up there in the cell block who wants to get out of here. I just thought you might like a shot at your brother.” Landers got up from the chair, walked to the door, and acted like he was about to push the button to call the guard.
”Wait,” she said. ”What do you want from me?”
”Like I said, I need a little help.”
”What kind of help?”
Landers sat back down at the table. ”Information.
I need information. Your brother is defending a murderer named Angel Christian. She’s in your cell block. Have you met her?”
”I keep to myself.”
”Here’s my problem. I don’t know anything about her. I need to be able to check her out, you know what I mean? For starters, Angel Christian isn’t her real name. I need to know what her name is. I need to know where she’s from. I need to know where she went to school, whether she’s ever had a driver’s license in another name, whether she’s ever been in trouble before, who her parents are, that kind of thing, and if she happens to bring up the murder, I wouldn’t mind hearing about it. Do you think you might be willing to help me out with that?”
It was as though the Christian girl didn’t exist. The only person who knew anything about her was Julie Hayes, and all Hayes knew was that she’d picked her up at the Greyhound bus terminal in Dallas back in February. Hayes said the girl wouldn’t tell her what her name was, so Hayes gave her the name Angel Christian on the bus. She thought it was funny. Landers desperately needed to come up with something. Hell, for all he knew, Angel might be a serial killer. But she wouldn’t talk to him, the Barlowe woman wouldn’t talk to him, and the people they’d interviewed at the strip club hadn’t helped at all.
”So you want me to snitch for you?” Dillard’s sister said.
”You can call it whatever you want. What I call it is providing substantial assistance to a law enforcement officer in a murder investigation.”
”And what do I get in return?”
”People who provide substantial assistance in murder investigations often receive substantial reductions in their sentences. Like time served.”
”What’s your name?” she said. Landers didn’t like the tone or the look on her face.
”My name is Landers. Special Agent Phillip Landers.”
She started laughing.
”What’s so goddamned funny?” Landers said.
”I heard my brother talking to his wife about you after he got hired on his big murder case. He said you’re the biggest liar on the planet. He said you’ll lie on the witness stand, plant evidence, frame people, and God knows what else. He said you’re one of those cops who’ll do anything to win a case.”
”Your brother’s a fucking asshole.”
”My brother may be an asshole, but he’s an honest asshole,” she said. ”I don’t think I care to get involved with someone like you. Besides, I’m not a snitch.”
Stupid little bitch. Landers was offering her a way out, and she had to go all sanctimonious. He wanted to ask her if being a drug-addicted, thieving little whore was better than being a snitch, but he didn’t want to kill the possibility that she might be willing to help him later. He swallowed his pride and smiled.
”Fine,” he said. ”It was nice to meet you. If you change your mind, just give me a call.”
Landers handed her a card and walked out the door. He’d wait and come back in a few weeks, maybe a month. If he was lucky she’d be sentenced by then, looking at a trip to the women’s penitentiary in Nashville. Landers had been down there a couple of times. It was a miserable fucking place. Maybe when the prospect of going to the penitentiary turned into a reality, Dillard’s sister would change her mind.
June 13
1:00 p.m.
Erlene Barlowe hated to do it to Virgil; he was such a sweetie. But Erlene had made an uncharacteristic mistake the night the preacher was killed—she’d let her emotions overcome her good sense and she’d put her beloved Angel in an impossible position. Erlene’s mistake had ultimately resulted in Angel’s arrest, and now she wa
s determined to do something that might begin to set things right.
Erlene had called Virgil and asked him to come out and meet her at the club at one o’clock in the afternoon. She could tell by his voice that he was a little apprehensive, but she assured him she just needed a teeny little favor.
He showed up right on time. Virgil Watterson was a homely sort of man, kind of short, and the hair in his gray wig stuck up in different directions. Erlene had never asked him why, but he always wore a bow tie and suspenders when he came to the club, at least until one of the girls took them off. Erlene had a collection of the bow ties Virgil had left behind.
Virgil was real well off—Gus told Erlene that Virgil owned six McDonald’s restaurants and a whole bunch of real estate. He’d been coming to the club for years, but since he was married and a deacon in his church and a high-class businessman and all, Erlene and Gus had always made the VIP room available for him and let him come and go through the back door. Sometimes he brought a friend or business associate with him, but usually he just came by himself. He always wanted at least two girls to keep him company and he always paid in cash. He was a good customer and a sweet little old man. Wouldn’t hurt a flea, though he did have some sexual tendencies that ran a little to the strange side.
The VIP lounge was a fairly large room with its own bar and dance floor. Off to one side were three small rooms Erlene called bull pens. If a gentleman wanted even more privacy, he was welcome to take a lady, or two or three, off into one of the bull pens and conduct whatever business he needed to conduct.
Gus always called the video recording system he installed in the VIP bull pens his little insurance policy. He didn’t tape everything that went on in there, but he taped enough to be able to do a little trading if the need ever arose. He had tapes of judges and lawyers and doctors and police chiefs and preachers and businessmen and politicians. All the tapes were arranged in alphabetical order and kept in a fireproof safe in a mini-warehouse on the outskirts of the city.
Virgil just happened to be one of the people Gus had taped several times, and Virgil was such a meek little man that Erlene thought he was perfect for what she needed done.
It was just the two of them in the club, and Erlene led Virgil down the hallway in the back to the girls’
