Joe Dillard - 01 - An Innocent Client

by Scott Pratt

  ”I can appreciate that,” I said, ”but you have to understand that we’re going to trial anyway. Jesus, Maynard, we just got a change of venue. At least you’ll get a fair trial in Mountain City.”

  ”I don’t want you to put on no witnesses for me,”

  Maynard said. ”You put me up there, I’m gonna tell them I did it.”

  ”So what the hell am I supposed to do?” I said.

  ”Sit there like a deaf-mute?”

  ”You just do the best you can. God will take care of the rest.”

  ”Don’t do that to me, Maynard. Don’t tell me you’ve found God in here. I know He’s here, because everybody in here finds Him, but if I’m going to try to defend you, you have to help me a little. Don’t leave it in God’s hands. God helps those who help themselves.”

  ”There’s only one thing I want you to do,” Maynard said, ”and it ain’t got nothing to do with the trial.”

  ”What’s that?”

  ”I’d like a little privacy is all.”

  ”What are you talking about?”

  ”I been writing to this woman on the outside. Her name’s Bonnie Tate. Me and her have got real close, you know? She’s the one that’s made me realize I don’t have to lie no more. God will forgive me and accept me into heaven. I think maybe I’m in love, Dillard. Can you believe it? Ol’ badass Maynard, falling flat out in love with a woman I ain’t never even met. I even tried to write her a little poetry. But that’s the problem. It’s these motherfucking guards. They look at my mail. They brought the poetry in and gave it to some of the other dudes in here. Them boys been fucking with me ever since.”

  It wasn’t the first time I’d heard about guards trying to embarrass and humiliate inmates with the contents of their outgoing mail. He was probably telling the truth.

  ”What do you want me to do?” I said.

  ”You don’t have to do much. They can’t read letters if I put ‘legal mail’ on the envelope, can they?”

  ”They’re not supposed to. Communication between client and lawyer is privileged, even if the client is an inmate.”

  ”All I want to do is put Bonnie’s letters in an envelope and address them to your office. So I’ll write

  ‘legal mail’ on the envelope, and underneath that I’ll write her initials. When you see it come into the office, all you have to do is either call her up and tell her to come get her letter or forward it on to her. I’ll give you her phone number and address.”

  I thought about it for a minute. All he was asking was to be able to write love letters without being humiliated. But then I thought again about who I was dealing with.

  ”Sorry, Maynard, can’t do it.”

  ”Why not?”

  ”It’s probably illegal, and I like life on the outside just fine. If the wrong people found out what I was doing, they’d lock me up.”

  ”Well, can you at least fix it so she can visit me?”

  I’d set up jail visits for plenty of clients. It seemed like a reasonable request.

  ”Now, that I can do. Put her on your visitors list.”

  ”You know something, Dillard?” he said. ”I didn’t like you much when I first met you. Thought you was like all them other mush-mouthed, pussy lawyers. But at least you try to do the right thing. You been coming up here to see me pretty regular and you been straight with me. I ain’t saying I want to marry you or nothing, but you’re a pretty decent dude.”

  I didn’t know what to say. A vicious, cruel, remorseless, murdering sociopath was doing his best to convince me he liked me, and I wondered why.

  ”Can I ask you a question?” he finally said.

  ”Sure.”

  ”How come you do this kind of stuff, Dillard?

  Ain’t no way you could like it much. How come you defend men like me?”

  The question took me by surprise, and I leaned back in the chair for a second. I didn’t want to get into talking about my motivations, and I didn’t want to tell him I was getting out.

  ”Why do you care?” I said.

  ”C’mon, Dillard, humor old Maynard. How come you take these death penalty cases?”

  ”Most of them are appointed. But if you have to know, Maynard, I guess I have this sort of simple philosophy about it. I just don’t think it’s right for a government to pass laws telling its citizens they can’t kill each other and then turn around and kill its citizens. It just seems hypocritical to me.”

  Maynard grinned. ”You’re a do-gooder, Dillard.

  That’s what you are.”

  ”Maybe. Something like that.”

  ”You’ll take care of the visits, then?” he asked when I didn’t say anything else.

  ”Yeah, Maynard. I’ll set it up.”

  I thought it was the least I could do for a man who was soon to be condemned to die.

  June 16

  9:15 p.m.

  It was after nine o’clock when I finally finished with Maynard. Darkness was falling, but it was clear and warm and I could see the stars shining above the lights in the jail parking lot. I was tired and wanted to get home quickly, so I took a short cut along a back road that bordered Boone Lake.

  As I drove along with the windows rolled down, I started thinking about how Angel was getting along at the jail. She was locked up with murderers, child abusers, drug addicts, thieves, hookers, and cons. So was Sarah, but Sarah was tough as nails. It would have to be incredibly difficult for a young girl. I imagined what it would be like to be caged most of the day and herded like sheep the rest of the time, to be taunted and bullied by guards and inmates, to be subjected to all kinds of physical indignities, to have absolutely no privacy.

  And if she really was innocent? The thought made me cringe.

  I was about halfway home when I noticed headlights in my rearview mirror. They were approaching fast. I thought about pulling over and letting whoever was in such a hurry pass, but I was on a narrow, curvy stretch of road with steep slopes on both sides.

  To my right were rocky cliffs, and to my left, thirty feet below, was the lake.

  The vehicle behind me turned its headlights on bright when it got to within fifty feet or so. I had to turn the rearview mirror down to keep from being blinded. I slowed and looked in the side-view mirror.

  The vehicle was right on my tail.

  I started tapping the brakes to try to get whoever it was to back off. They didn’t. I sped up around a sharp curve but almost lost control in a patch of gravel. When I got the truck straightened back out, the vehicle bumped me.

  ”Why, you sorry sonofabitch . . .” I slammed on the brakes, and the truck skidded to a halt in the middle of a short straightaway. I kept an old aluminum baseball bat under the seat, and I fully intended to use it on the person behind me. I reached down and felt for the bat, hoping whoever it was didn’t have a gun.

  With a sudden loud crash, my truck jerked forward. I twisted around and looked out the rear windshield over the bed. I could tell that the vehicle silhouetted behind me was a pickup, bigger than mine, but between the surrounding darkness and the glare of the headlights, I couldn’t make out the color.

  It was pushing me along the road.

  I turned back and grabbed the wheel, trying to hold the truck straight and pushing on the brakes with all my strength. The tires screamed, but the truck began slowly to turn towards the lake. I tried to turn hard to the right, but the truck behind me had gotten its bumper into my left rear fender and was turning me. I was moving faster by the second, and I had absolutely no control.

  A moment later, I felt the right front tire drop off the embankment. I’d been turned almost one hundred eighty degrees. I looked and at last caught a glimpse of the truck that was pushing me. It was a silver Dodge. Then the right rear dropped, and my truck was rolling. My head slammed into the steering wheel and I saw a flash of bright light. I felt a brief sense of dizziness. I thought I heard a splash, then an explosion, and then I thought I was being smothered.

  And then it was sil
ent and still. I felt fingers gently rubbing across my forehead.

  ”Joe,” a voice said. ”Joe, honey, it’s time to wake up. C’mon, baby, you have to wake up.” It was Caroline’s voice.

  I awoke to the sound of a rushing waterfall. It was dark, and my wife was nowhere to be found. I looked around. I was leaning hard to my right and being restrained by something. I reached down and realized it was a seat belt. Something was pushing against my face. An air bag. My eyes adjusted to the darkness and I remembered that the Dodge had pushed me over the embankment. I was in the lake, and the sound I heard wasn’t a waterfall; it was the lake rushing in through the open passenger window.

  As I struggled with the seat belt, the truck began to level off and more water started pouring in through the driver’s side.

  ”I am not going to drown!” I said out loud. ”I am not going to drown in this fucking lake!”

  I got the belt off, scooted out from beneath the air bag, and crouched in the middle of the seat. Water was pouring in so fast on either side of me that there was no way I could get out. I knew I’d have to wait until the truck was submerged. I looked around frantically. The headlights were still on. I could see bubbles rising as the truck sank in the water. I pulled my shoes off. The water continued to pour and roar.

  And then it was black. The water began to cover me. It was so cold I could barely breathe. My face was nearly against the roof as the cab finally filled.

  I took a deep breath and pushed myself through the passenger side window. The truck had started to roll in the water, and for a second, I had no idea which direction to swim.

  I thought about the bubbles in the headlights. Bubbles rise, Joe. Follow the bubbles. I let out some air and felt the bubbles rise across my face. I kicked for my life, and a few seconds later, I broke the surface.

  It was eerily quiet, but the moon gave off enough light that I could make out the features of the landscape around me. I was only about twenty feet from the steep, rocky bank where I’d gone over. I looked up to see whether whoever tried to kill me—and I knew it had to be Junior Tester—was still there. I couldn’t see or hear anyone.

  Boone is a mountain lake, and the water was bone chilling. My teeth started chattering and my hands and feet were already beginning to tingle. I knew I had to get out fast. I swam for the bank, got hold of some overhanging brush, and pulled myself up onto the rocks. I sat there for a couple of minutes, caught my breath, and tried to compose myself.

  I took inventory of my body first. I didn’t seem to be hurt too badly. My ribs and chest were sore, but I didn’t think I had any broken bones. All of my joints seemed to be in working order and I didn’t have any trouble making a fist with either hand. I noticed something warm running down my face and touched it. I was bleeding from a cut above my left eye. It was tender and beginning to swell, but I didn’t think it was too serious. I looked up the bank and realized how far the truck had fallen. I was lucky to be alive.

  It took me at least ten minutes to crawl up the rocky slope to the road. I crouched in some brush for several minutes. A couple of cars went by, but I was afraid to stand up and wave for fear that Junior might come back. I finally mustered the courage to get up and start walking down the asphalt road. I knew there were houses about a mile away. After about a quarter mile, I found myself wishing I hadn’t shed my shoes.

  As I walked down the road with my socks squishing and the warm blood running down the side of my face, I wondered if Junior thought he’d succeeded in killing me. What about Caroline and Lilly? Would he be crazy enough to go after one of them? I felt my heart quicken, and I began to jog.

  A short time later, I made my way to a farmhouse set about a hundred yards off the road. Nearly every light in the house was on. As I climbed the steps, I looked down and noticed the front of my shirt was soaked with blood. I wondered what kind of reception I’d get when whoever answered the door saw a blood-soaked stranger wearing a tie and no shoes standing on the porch.

  I knocked. A small dog immediately started yapping, and a woman who looked to be around seventy soon appeared at the door. She pulled the curtain aside and peered up at me through oval-shaped glasses. Her gray hair was pulled into a tight bun. A look of horror immediately came over her face—I must have looked even worse than I felt.

  ”What do ye want?” she yelled through the door.

  ”I’ve been in an accident,” I said. ”I need to use your phone.”

  ”Air ye drunk?”

  ”No, ma’am.”

  She looked me up and down. ”Soaking wet and ye ain’t got no shoes. Where’s yer shoes?”

  ”In the lake,” I said. ”My car went into the lake.

  I had to swim out.”

  ”Ye drove yer car into the lake? What’d ye do a damn fool thing like that fer?”

  ”I didn’t mean to, ma’am. It was an accident.

  Please, if you could just hand the phone out the door, I’d really appreciate it.”

  ”Yer bleeding like a stuck hog.”

  ”I know. I hit my head.”

  ”Got a name?”

  ”Dillard. My name is Joe Dillard.”

  ”Dillard? Any kin to Hobie and Rena Dillard out Sulphur Springs?”

  ”I don’t think so. Please, ma’am, do you have a phone I can use?”

  ”Well, I reckon,” she said after a thoughtful moment. ”Ye don’t look like a hoodlum.”

  She opened the door and I stumbled in. It must have been the tie.

  June 16

  11:00 p.m.

  I’d called Caroline from the mountain woman’s house, and she and Lilly had come to pick me up.

  Lilly started crying when she saw me. After I got into the car and things settled down a little, I told Caroline what happened and who I thought had pushed me into the lake.

  ”What are you going to do?” she said.

  ”I’m not sure. Guess I’ll start by calling the police.”

  I used Caroline’s cell phone to call 911 from the car. Mine was at the bottom of Boone Lake in the console of my truck. I told the dispatcher what had happened and that I was headed to the emergency room. She said they’d send someone up.

  Since the attack had occurred in the county, jurisdiction for my attempted murder fell to the Washington County sheriff’s department. An investigator showed up and stood beside the gurney while a doctor stitched up my eye.

  The damage amounted to a bruised sternum, a few bruised ribs, and a two-inch gash above the orbital bone that surrounded my left eye. The doctor covered the eye while he stitched, so I could see the investigator who’d been dispatched to talk to me only out of my right eye. His name was Sam Wiseman. Sam was almost seven feet tall and had to weigh in the neighborhood of four hundred pounds.

  He was a surly man, and he had no compunction about letting me know that he didn’t like me. His feelings stemmed from a case I’d defended a couple of years earlier. A group of teenagers had vandalized a Baptist church in the county. They broke every pane of glass in the place and threw paint and mustard and anything else they could find all over the sanctuary. By the time they were finished, they’d done more than fifty thousand dollars’ worth of damage. Sam caught the case, and unfortunately for my client, a fifteen-year-old girl named Delores McKinney, the church they vandalized happened to be the church that Sam attended every Sunday with his mother.

  Sam insisted that every one of the juveniles go off to detention for at least a year, a demand I considered unreasonable since my client was a good student, had no record whatsoever, admitted what she’d done after she sobered up, and her parents were more than willing to reimburse the church for her share of the damages. She pleaded guilty to vandalism, and I hired a psychologist for the sentencing hearing. When the juvenile court judge heard how much the kids had to drink, heard that they stole the booze and the pills they took from their own parents, and heard the shrink testify about peer pressure and gang mentality, she put them all on probation. Sam blamed it on me.

 
; As I lay on the gurney, I ran back through the night’s events for Sam and told him about Tester’s son and what had happened in the courtroom at Angel’s arraignment. The problem was that I hadn’t actually seen the person driving the truck either time.

  I didn’t even have a tag number.

  ”I can’t get a warrant based on what you’ve told me,” Sam said.

  ”I know.”

  ”I can find out where he lives and see if the sheriff will let me go down and talk to him tomorrow.”

  ”I doubt he’ll admit to anything.”

  ”There might be some damage on his truck, but you have to understand it’ll be damned hard to prove anything. If you’re going to accuse a sheriff’s deputy of doing something this crazy, you’re going to need more than suspicion.”

  ”I understand.”

  Sam finished taking his notes and gruffly told me he’d make sure my insurance company got a copy of his report. The doctor finished stitching me up, and Caroline, Lilly, and I walked out the door. We started home in silence.

  ”What are you going to do?” Caroline asked again about ten minutes later.

  ”I’m not sure, but you and Lilly have to be extra careful now, do you understand? Maybe you should go away for a couple of weeks.”

  ”I’m not about to let some lunatic run me out of my home,” Caroline said.

  ”He’s a dangerous lunatic, Caroline. Aren’t you just a little afraid?”

  ”A little, but if he comes anywhere near the house, Rio will tear his leg off, and if he gets past Rio, I have a big strong Ranger to take care of me.”

  ”He almost got the best of your big strong Ranger tonight.”

  ”But he didn’t, did he? My Ranger lives to fight another day.”

  It was past midnight when we got home, and I was sore and tired. Lilly was still upset, so I told her to sleep in our bed. After we were sure she was asleep, I double-checked to make sure all the doors and windows were locked. Caroline had taken a seat on the couch in the den, and I went in and lay down with my head in her lap.

  ”You saved my life tonight,” I said as she stroked my forehead.