by Scott Pratt
”It’s not going to help my career either, Frankie.”
”Why didn’t we have her tucked away as a material witness?”
”Because she never gave me any indication she was going anywhere.”
”Did you know she was a cokehead?”
”I had my suspicions.” Landers felt a hand running up his leg and pushed it away. It returned, and he pushed it away again. He was thinking about how much he hated lawyers, prosecutors included. Every time something went wrong with a case, they blamed it on the police. He also hated aging bleached blondes like the one next to him. He wished the bitch would just get up and leave.
”We need to try to make the best of this,” Frankie said. ”I talked to Deacon a little while ago, and we’ve come up with a plan. We’re going to make Dillard an offer he can’t refuse on the Christian case, but if it doesn’t work, we’re going to need your help.”
”I have the rest of the week off, Frankie. Call me on Monday.”
Landers hung up and turned to the woman, who was peeking out over the sheet. Her left eyelash was twice as long as her right one, which must have come off during the sexcapades last night. No doubt he’d find it in the bed later. Ugh. The roots of her blond hair were dark, and so was the mole just above her left nostril. Landers had absolutely no clue what her name might be.
”Get up,” he said. ”Time to go.”
”Don’t you want to play some more?”
”Get up and get out.”
The woman began to collect her clothing, which was spread out across the floor between the bed and the door. She was naked, and as Landers watched her, he wished she’d cover herself. The backs of her thighs were layered with cellulite, and her ass sagged and jiggled. When she straightened to look at Landers, he decided she had to be well into her forties.
Landers liked younger women, much younger
women. Jesus, how much did he drink? He pulled the sheet over his head and leaned back.
”You can dress downstairs, on your way out,”
Landers said. He was beginning to feel sick.
He heard her walking towards the bedroom door and pulled the sheet back down so he could take one last look at her and remind himself why he shouldn’t drink so goddamned much. As she opened the door, she turned to face him.
”You’re a lousy lay,” she said, and then she was gone.
Lousy lay, my ass. Landers needed to take a shower.
He threw back the sheet, and there it was. The false eyelash, about an inch from his thigh. It looked like a fucking centipede. Landers felt his stomach heave.
He made it to the bathroom just in time.
July 11
7:00 a.m.
We’d brought furniture up from Ma’s house when we moved her into the nursing home: a dresser, a couple of small tables, a lamp, and a chair, thinking it might help ease the transition and make her more comfortable. I spent an entire afternoon hanging and arranging photographs. One of my dad in his high school football uniform was hanging just to the right of the television. She’d asked me to place it there so she could look at it from the bed. Now she didn’t even know who he was.
I arrived at seven a.m. to find her lying on her back staring at nothing. She hadn’t spoken in weeks, and she’d wet herself and was drooling. Saliva had run out the corner of her mouth and soaked her pillowcase. I dug a fresh one out of the closet and then went and found a nurse’s aide. I waited in the hallway while she changed Ma’s diaper. I couldn’t bear to do it myself.
When she was finished, I walked back into the room and sat down. Ever since the day I told her about Raymond, I’d gotten into the habit of talking to her, even though she was oblivious to everything I said. I’d turned my visits into mini-therapy sessions without the shrink. Mostly, I talked about my cases and the constant state of conflict in which I found myself.
”Just my luck, huh, Ma?” I said. ”I get a case with a client who’s innocent, and the victim’s son turns out to be a psychopath. Everybody in the family’s scared to death. We check to make sure the doors and windows are locked every night, I’ve got guns spread out all over the house, and we all spend half our time looking in rearview mirrors and over our shoulders. It’s crazy.
”But you know what? The whole system is crazy.
For over ten years, I’ve been traveling every day to this bizarre world of lies and deceit. There’s no honor in it anywhere. It’s all just a sick game, and the people who win the most are the ones who lie the best. They call it the criminal justice system.
What a crock. Defendants lie and cheat, police officers lie and cheat, prosecutors lie and cheat, defense lawyers lie and cheat, and judges—Jesus, don’t get me started. The American legal system would do itself a great service if it could somehow execute half the sitting judges in this country and start all over again—”
My cell phone rang. It was Caroline.
”Deacon Baker just called. They found Julie Hayes dead at her house yesterday. He wants you to come down there. He wants to talk about a deal.”
I leaned over and kissed my mother on the forehead, something I never did when she was conscious.
”Love you, Ma. I have to go, but I’m glad we had this little talk. Next time I’ll tell you about Maynard Bush.”
July 11
9:00 a.m.
Deacon Baker and Frankie Martin were waiting for me in the conference room. There were a couple of plastic plants sitting on small tables in two of the corners, and the walls were lined with bookshelves stuffed with outdated law books and police magazines. The ceilings were low, and I noticed that mildew had formed in the corners. The lighting was almost as bad as the lighting at the jail.
”Mr. Dillard,” Baker said as I walked in, ”I trust you know my assistant, Frankie Martin?”
”I do.” I shook hands with each of them and took a seat at the long table with my back to the wall.
Baker and Martin sat across from me. Baker looked like an Oompa-Loompa from Willy Wonka & the Chocolate Factory. He was short, plump, and bald, and he always wore suspenders. He was also smoking a fat cigar, despite the fact that smoking wasn’t allowed in the building. The smell and the smoke were sickening.
”Ready for trial?” I said. ”Sorry about your witness.” I couldn’t resist.
”Of course we are,” Baker said. ”We have plenty of evidence without her.”
”I understand you gentlemen would like to talk about a plea bargain.”
”That’s right,” Baker said. ”Let’s try to be honest with each other. Perhaps we can put the posturing aside.”
Plea bargaining was entirely about posturing. There was no way anyone was going to ”put it aside.”
”We have a strong case,” Baker said, ”but I’ve given this a great deal of thought and I don’t think the case is appropriate for the death penalty. We might be willing to take it off the table in exchange for a plea.”
So much for honesty. Their case was anything but strong, especially now that Julie Hayes was dead.
”What do you have in mind?” I said.
”Twenty years, second-degree murder.”
”Not a chance. Not on the evidence I’ve seen.
Surely you didn’t bring me all the way down here for that.”
”Make a counteroffer,” Baker said.
”I’ve given it some thought, too,” I said. ”The way I see it, you had a weak circumstantial case before your most important witness died, and you’ve got an unappealing victim. You’re going to have to spend a great deal of time at trial proving that your preacher went to a strip club. Then I assume you’re going to try to prove he solicited a prostitute, since you’re going to introduce evidence about the money he withdrew from his bank account right before he left.
I don’t think the jury will have much sympathy for him, and I’ll do everything I can to make sure they don’t.”
”Let’s assume he was, as you say, there to solicit a prostitute,” Martin said. ”That doesn’t mean he d
eserved to be brutally murdered and mutilated.
The jury is going to want to see someone pay for that.”
”I’m sure they will,” I said. ”But not Angel. I don’t think she did it, and you can’t prove she did. Barlowe could have killed him, any of the other girls at the club could have killed him, he could have gone somewhere else and picked up someone else, or someone could have been waiting for him when he got back to the room. Hell, it could have been anybody, and you know it.”
”Nobody else’s hair was found in that room,”
Baker said. ”Only your client’s.”
”If they’d found the hair in the bathroom or on the headboard or even on the floor it would be different. But they found it on his clothing. It’s entirely possible that her hair passed to him when she was serving him booze at the club and he was rubbing up against her. And the only way you could possibly make the jury even suspect Angel was at the motel was through Julie Hayes, and she’s gone.”
”We have plenty of other evidence,” Baker said.
”I know what other evidence you have, Deacon.
And I know what I have. I was planning to surprise you with this, but since we’re not posturing, I have a witness who says he saw a woman fitting Erlene Barlowe’s description on Pickens Bridge around midnight the night of the murder. His name is Virgil Watterson. I believe you’ve heard of him.”
Baker flushed. It apparently hadn’t entered his feeble mind that Watterson might take his testimony to the defense attorney, and Landers obviously hadn’t said anything about our conversation at the courthouse.
”That testimony has no credibility,” he said. ”All the witness saw was a woman on a bridge in the middle of the night. He can’t make a positive ID and he wasn’t even sure about the color of the vehicle.”
”Bullshit,” I said. ”You know as well as I do that if anyone from that club killed Tester, it was most likely Erlene Barlowe.” I felt a twinge of guilt as I said it. After all, Erlene had paid me a handsome sum of cash, but my job was to represent Angel. I couldn’t concern myself with Erlene.
”I can’t prove that,” Baker said.
”You can’t prove Angel killed him either.”
”So where does that leave us?” Baker looked like he was ready to say ”uncle.”
”We’re willing to roll the dice.”
”What would it take to resolve this case without a trial? Make some kind of reasonable counteroffer.”
This was the tricky part. If Angel was innocent, I wanted her to walk away without any strings, but the only way to do that was to win in front of a jury, and winning murder cases in front of juries was easier said than done. I also knew Deacon. Like most prosecutors, he wasn’t going to admit that he’d made a mistake and dismiss the case outright. I knew I’d have to give him something in order to make a deal and remove the risk that Angel might be found guilty and sentenced to life in prison or death.
”She might be willing to enter a no-contest plea to some offense so long as you agree to probation,” I said. ”She’s already served more jail time than she should have.”
”You don’t really think she’s innocent, do you?”
Frankie said.
”As a matter of fact, I do. She has no history of criminal behavior, no drug or alcohol use, no history of psychological problems”—a white lie—”and she seems very gentle. I don’t think she did it. And I’ll tell you something else. She’s going to be a damned good witness. You know how pretty she is, and she comes across as sincere.”
”Probation is impossible,” Baker said. ”I can’t reduce a death penalty case to a probatable offense. I’d look like a fool.”
”You can sell it, Deacon,” I said. ”Think about it.
You announce to the court that an important witness has passed away and that the investigation has revealed some things you can’t divulge, but those things convince you that the plea agreement best serves the interests of justice. You tell the press your job as district attorney is to see that justice is done, not just to try to win at all costs. Then you build a case on Erlene Barlowe and get it right. You could come out of it looking like a hero, and believe me, you won’t hear a bit of criticism out of me. I’ll tell the press the district attorney has done the right thing and that you acted in good faith throughout the entire course of this tragic situation. I’ll publicly sing your praises a couple of weeks before the election.”
Baker sat back and removed the cigar from his lips.
He looked at Martin and then at me. A crooked smile began to form on his lips.
”You’re devious,” he said.
”I’m just trying to grease the wheel,” I said. ”Winwin. My girl goes home, and you look like a good guy. We’ll take three years of probation on aggravated assault. You’ll have her under your thumb for three years. If she screws up, she serves the sentence.”
”I have to think about it,” Baker said.
”What are you going to do about Tester’s son?”
I said.
”Screw him. From what I hear, he got fired from his job at the sheriff’s department. Besides, he’s not a registered voter in this county. I’m not even going to tell him about this.”
I stood to leave. ”I don’t want to sound arrogant, Deacon, but if you take this to trial, you’re going to lose. She didn’t kill him.”
Baker was silent, apparently lost in thought.
”We’ll see about that,” Martin said.
”Call me and let me know what you decide,” I said. ”I’ll be getting ready for trial.”
The call came two hours later.
”She can plead to aggravated assault as Range I and take the minimum, three years,” Frankie Martin said.
”It will have to be a no-contest plea, and you’ll have to agree to probation,” I said.
”Fine.”
”Deacon is going to sell it?”
”He’s already working the phones,” Martin said.
”He’ll hold a press conference after the plea and explain why we agreed to this.”
I hung up the phone and went down to talk to my client.
July 14
9:00 a.m.
As Judge Green made his entrance and sat down beneath his portrait, I glanced around the courtroom.
The jury box was once again filled with members of the media who’d been called by Deacon Baker. I was edgy and tired. I’d spent most of Sunday night troubled by Angel’s willingness to take this deal. I told myself that the plea took nearly all of the risk off the table, guaranteed her release from custody, and spared her the ordeal of a trial. But I also knew that if I’d been accused of a crime I hadn’t committed, nothing would persuade me to stand up and accept a three-year sentence, probation or no probation. Angel hadn’t needed much persuasion.
”I understand we have a plea in case number 35666, State of Tennessee versus Angel Christian,” Judge Green said. ”Bring the defendant in.”
Angel appeared through the doorway to my right, and I smiled at her as I walked to the podium. She looked away. I thought she’d forgiven me for being so hard on her the day I questioned her about Erlene, but maybe not.
”Let me see the forms,” Judge Green said.
I’d taken plea-agreement forms along with me when I explained the deal to Angel, and she’d signed them. I now handed them to the bailiff, who in turn handed them to Judge Green. The judge didn’t allow lawyers to approach the bench to hand him forms or other evidence. He insisted that everything be passed forward through the bailiff, as though he was repulsed by the idea of having to deal directly with a lowly lawyer.
Judge Green studied the documents for a few minutes. His brow furrowed. When he was finished, he looked over at Frankie Martin and Deacon Baker, both of whom were staring straight ahead.
”Would you care to explain this to me, Mr. Baker?”
”Explain what, Your Honor?”
”The state is reducing a first-degree murder charge to an aggravated assault. You�
��re agreeing to probation. Did your victim somehow miraculously come back to life?”
”No, Your Honor. He’s still dead.” The reporters laughed. I thought about Junior Tester, and for a moment, I actually felt sorry for him.
”Then why are you allowing this woman to plead as though the victim were still alive?” Green said.
”I think it’s clear we have some problems with the case, Your Honor. This is a compromise plea agreement. An important witness has passed away. There are also some things that have come up in the investigation, things I’m not at liberty to discuss at this time, that convince me that this plea agreement is in everyone’s best interests.”
”Why don’t you just dismiss the case?” Judge Green said. ”You can always refile it if another witness pops up or if your other problems are resolved.
There’s no statute of limitations on murder.”
”We think this is a better way to resolve it. Mr.
Dillard’s client is willing to enter a no-contest plea to aggravated assault.”
”No, I’m not.” The soft voice came directly from my right.
Judge Green turned his attention towards me.
”Did your client say something, Mr. Dillard?”
”I think so.” I looked at Angel. ”What did you say?”
”I don’t want to do this. I changed my mind.”
Baker stood. ”But we had a deal—”
”Be quiet,” Judge Green said. ”Mr. Dillard, what’s going on?”
”I’d be happy to explain it if I knew,” I said.
”When I spoke to Ms. Christian on Friday afternoon, she seemed pleased. She’s apparently changed her mind.”
”You’re wasting my time,” the judge said. ”I don’t like it when people waste my time.”
”This is a complete surprise,” I said. ”If you’ll give me a few minutes to talk to her, maybe we can straighten this out.”
”Don’t bother,” Judge Green said.
”Your Honor,” Baker said, ”Mr. Dillard and I reached a compromise agreement that brings what I believe to be a fair and satisfactory end to this very difficult case.”
