by Scott Pratt
”You’ve been through a lot in the past few months,”
she said. ”We’ve all been through a lot.”
We rode the rest of the way home in silence. Jack distracted me for a couple of hours by taking me out to his old high school baseball field. I didn’t hear her say anything, but I felt sure it was at Caroline’s suggestion. I’d bought a pitching machine a couple of years earlier, and I fed balls into the machine while Jack pounded them over the fence. Watching him hit a baseball was a truly beautiful thing to me. He was so quick, so powerful, so fluid. He was so much better than I ever was, and watching him gave me more pleasure than I’d had in months. The sun and the exercise felt good, and by the time we got back to the house, I was feeling a little better.
But then the night came, and with it, another bout of sleepless self-flagellation. We drove to the cemetery at eleven the next morning. I felt like a dead man walking when we climbed the hill to the gravesite. It was overcast and drizzling rain. There was a crowd of people there. I sensed their presence, but I couldn’t really see them. It was as though they were all standing in a bank of thick fog.
And then I caught a glimpse of Sarah. Caroline had called the sheriff’s department and made arrangements for them to bring her to the funeral. She arrived in the back of a cruiser, wearing an orange jail jumpsuit and handcuffs and shackles. The deputy who brought her up wouldn’t let her under the tent with Caroline, Lilly, Jack, and me, so she ended up having to stand outside with the others in the rain.
Caroline had contacted Ma’s best friend, a woman named Katie Lowe, to give the eulogy. I sat there, not really listening, until she began to talk about Elizabeth’s children. I heard some things about my mother that I hadn’t known before, things that Ma had told Katie about Sarah and me. One of them was that Ma had been so proud of me when I graduated from law school that she cried. I’d never seen my mother cry, and I’d never heard her say a word about being proud of me.
When the service was over, the deputy took Sarah by the arm and led her straight back down the hill.
I watched as she climbed awkwardly into the backseat of the cruiser. I felt tears forming in my eyes as the cruiser pulled away and I turned to Ma’s casket.
I put my palms on it and stood there, not knowing what to say or do, embarrassed to be showing weakness in front of my children. I stood there until the crowd had dispersed and then, for some reason I didn’t understand, I felt the impulse to bend down and kiss her casket. I’d kissed her at the nursing home, but not until she was too far gone to feel it.
When I kissed her casket, I realized that I hadn’t ever given her a meaningful kiss. The thought made it almost impossible to keep from breaking down.
I leaned against the casket with my shoulders shaking and tried to compose myself. She’s gone and you’re still here, I said to myself. She’s gone and you’re still here. You’re alive. You have people who love you.
Stop feeling sorry for yourself… .
Stop feeling sorry for yourself. It was a phrase I’d heard many times, straight from my mother’s mouth, and as I stood there leaning against her casket, I knew I had to try. The same people who loved me also depended on me for strength and support. I couldn’t let them down.
”Goodbye, Ma,” I whispered. ”I’m sorry.”
I took a deep breath, straightened up, wiped the tears from my face with the back of my hand, and lifted my chin. I put one arm around Caroline and the other around Lilly, and nodded to Jack.
Together, the four of us walked back down the hill towards the car in the drizzling rain, and went back to our lives.
PART III
July 24
6:15 a.m.
Agent Landers woke up in a foul mood, knowing he had to spend the next few days in a courtroom on a case he might lose, even with Dillard’s sister’s testimony. Just as he was starting to get in the shower, his cell phone rang.
Who in the hell calls at six fifteen in the morning? The caller ID said the number was blocked. What was the point in a caller ID if the person on the other end could block it? Fucking cell phone company morons.
”Landers.”
”I have some information for you.” It was a female. Landers could barely hear her.
”Who is this?”
”I used to work for Erlene Barlowe.”
”How’d you get my cell phone number?”
”Julie Hayes gave it to me. I was going to call you sooner, but when she got killed, it scared me.”
”So why aren’t you scared now?”
”Because I’m gone.”
”Tell me your name.”
”Can’t do it. You’re making a mistake. Angel didn’t kill anybody.”
”How do you know that?”
”Because I was there that night. I know what happened.”
”Are you saying Erlene killed him?”
”I don’t think you even have to ask me that question.”
”If you know something, we can protect you. You need to come back and sign a statement and testify.”
”You didn’t protect Julie.”
”You’re not helping me if you won’t come in.”
”I can help you find something you’ve been looking for.”
”I’m listening.”
”I’ll give you a hint. It’s red and has four wheels.”
”The Corvette?”
”I knew you were smart.”
”Where is it?”
”In a barn.”
”Stop playing games with me. Where’s the car?”
”Do you have a pen and a piece of paper? You’re going to need to write this down.”
Landers called Frankie Martin and told him he wouldn’t be around for jury selection in the morning, but he didn’t tell him why. Landers could tell from the tone of Martin’s voice that he was pissed off, but Landers wasn’t about to tell Frankie or anyone else where he was going. He’d been jerked around enough on the Angel Christian case. If the girl on the phone was sending him on a wild-goose chase, he was going to be the only one who knew about it.
Landers made the drive down I-181 from Johnson City to Unicoi County in thirty minutes. It was already seventy-eight degrees, and there was a thick mist hanging over everything. It was going to be hotter than hell and humid. He took the Temple Hill exit and turned onto Spivey Mountain Road.
Two miles up the mountain, Landers came to an unmarked gravel road, right where his source said it would be. He turned right and followed the gravel road through a gulley and along a tree-covered ridge.
After a mile, he came to a cattle gate that was secured by a padlock. He climbed the gate and followed the trail on foot through a stand of white pine for another quarter mile. As he broke into a clearing, Landers spotted the barn a hundred yards to his right. So far, it looked like the bitch was telling the truth.
Landers pulled his gun and walked slowly up to the barn. He saw something move in the woods to his left and froze. Must have been a deer. He peeked through the wooden slats until his eyes adjusted to the semidarkness inside. Sure enough, there it was.
A vehicle covered by a tarp. The barn door was padlocked, so Landers crawled in through an open window, walked over to the car, and lifted the tarp. A Corvette. A beautiful, red, fucking Corvette. And he could make out dark stains on the passenger seat.
The motherfucking lode. Finally.
Landers pulled a notepad from his pocket and wrote down the vehicle identification number, climbed back through the window, and jogged all the way back to his car. Sweat was pouring off of him. As soon as he got to a spot where he had a cell phone signal, he called Bill Wright and told him what he’d found. Wright said he’d arrange for two agents to secure the property. No one would go in or out until Landers did what needed to be done. Wright also said he’d call the forensics team. They’d be on the way soon.
Landers drove back down the mountain and
straight to the tax assessor’s office at the Unicoi County courthouse. They�
��d just opened and there was no one there besides Landers. The woman who worked there helped him find the property he’d just left on one of the tax maps. From that, Landers learned that the taxes on the property were paid by a corporation called Busty Gals, Inc.
Landers got back into his car and drove to the TBI office in Johnson City. On the way, he called the Tennessee secretary of state’s office in Nashville and asked them to fax him a copy of Busty Gals, Inc.’s, corporate charter. The incorporator was HighRide, Inc., a Delaware corporation not registered to do business in Tennessee. A phone call to the Delaware secretary of state’s office confirmed what Landers suspected. Erlene Barlowe and her dead husband owned HighRide, Inc., which meant they also owned Busty Gals, Inc. Landers faxed the Corvette’s VIN to the National Auto Theft Bureau, an arm of the insurance industry that tracked nearly every car in the country. The Corvette was also registered to HighRide, Inc. That explained why Landers hadn’t been able to get a hit from the Tennessee Department of Motor Vehicles.
Landers used all of the information he’d gathered to draft an affidavit for a search warrant for the barn.
He didn’t mention the fact that he’d trespassed onto the property on Spivey Mountain. The way he drafted the warrant made it look as though he’d done some excellent police work, which he figured he had. He found Judge Glass in his office at eleven thirty, and the judge signed the warrant.
Landers was scheduled to testify in the Angel Christian case in the afternoon, but depending on what forensics found in the barn, he knew his testimony might have to change. He kept up with the radio traffic, so he knew the forensics team hit the barn a little before one o’clock. He headed down to Jonesborough to talk to Deacon Baker.
July 24
9:00 a.m.
I found out Sarah was going to testify against Angel less than a week before the trial, when the district attorney faxed me an amended witness list and a copy of my sister’s statement. I didn’t believe a word of what I read. The statement had been taken by Phil Landers.
I was confident as I sat in the courtroom on the second floor in Jonesborough, but as always, I was a little nervous. The bailiff announced the entrance of Judge Len Green. The case of the State of Tennessee v.
Angel Christian was about to go to trial.
Seventy-seven citizens from Washington County had been summoned. From that group, we’d choose the jury that would determine Angel’s fate. I’d spend a great deal of time talking to them about being open-minded and neutral and the importance of a fair trial, but I knew the goal of jury selection was to try to make sure the trial was anything but fair. I needed to select people who were more likely to be sympathetic to Angel than to the state. The key was to talk to them as much as I could, accurately gauge their answers and reactions, and then make the right decisions.
I’d never before represented a woman accused of murder, let alone a woman who looked like Angel.
Her beauty was both a blessing and a curse, and presented me with a fascinating dilemma when it came to picking a jury. I knew Angel would be attractive to the prospective male jurors, especially if I chose them carefully, and I hoped the attraction would cause them to be sympathetic towards her and want to help her. At the same time, there would be evidence presented during the trial of the kind of mutilation any man would fear. If the male jurors perceived at any time during the trial that Angel might be capable of such an act, she’d be doomed.
The image Angel presented to the prospective female jurors was an even trickier issue. The average female in Washington County, Tennessee, was a God-fearing conservative. From the mouth of Agent Landers, those conservative women would hear testimony that Angel was a runaway and that she had worked, if only for a short time, in a strip club.
They’d hear that Angel Christian probably wasn’t her real name, and that Landers had been unable to find background information on her. That alone could be enough to cause many women to vote to convict her, but my bigger concern was jealousy. If the female jurors perceived that Angel regarded herself as beautiful, or that she was somehow attempting to take advantage of her beauty to gain favor with the men, we wouldn’t have a chance.
Caroline had chosen Angel’s wardrobe and
makeup, and when I saw my client walk into the courtroom early that morning, I was grateful for my wife’s skill. The black pantsuit and cream-colored blouse were conservative but classy, loose enough to hide the curves but not frumpy. Angel’s shoes were black with low heels, and her hair had been neatly tied back. Just a touch of eyeliner set off her fantastic brown eyes. There was no lip gloss, no shading around the eyes, no blush, and no jewelry. She looked like a scared, beautiful college student. It was perfect.
I nodded and smiled at the group of prospective jurors when Judge Green introduced me. I immediately scanned the room for Junior Tester, but he wasn’t there. I introduced Angel and placed my hand on her shoulder. I wanted the jury to know I wasn’t ashamed to touch her, that I felt close to her, and that I believed in her. Angel nodded her head and smiled, just as I’d told her to do.
I sat back down as Judge Green began the jury selection process. He reached into a stack of slips and randomly pulled out a name.
”Lucille Benton,” he said.
A lady wearing a denim pantsuit rose from the middle of the crowded audience.
”Here,” she said, raising her hand.
”Come on down.” Judge Green sounded like a game show host. ”Where are you from?”
”Limestone,” the woman said, walking towards the jury box.
”Ah, Limestone, wonderful little community. And how are things in Limestone this morning, Ms.
Benton?”
I cringed. I was sitting next to a woman who was on trial for murder, and Judge Green was politicking as usual, pandering shamelessly to the jurors. I scribbled notes while he instructed the first thirteen to sit in the jury box and the next seven to sit on the front row of the audience, just behind the bar. Finally, after a half hour of worthless banter from the judge, I heard the words I’d been waiting for.
”Mr. Martin, you may voir dire the jury.”
Frankie Martin rose, straightened his tie, and moved to the podium. He was about to address a jury in a murder case for the first time in his life, having spent the past four years handling misdemeanor cases in general sessions court. But he was a handsome, articulate young man and carried himself with confidence. He was also fighting for his very survival in the prosecutor’s office. The fact that Deacon Baker was not in the courtroom could mean only one thing: he thought the case was a loser. Martin was Baker’s sacrificial lamb. If Martin lost this trial, he’d be hustling divorce cases next week.
I whispered into Angel’s ear: ”I need you to watch the jurors very carefully. If anyone on the jury makes you uncomfortable for any reason, I want to know about it.”
She nodded. Caroline had obviously given her some perfume. She smelled like a lilac bush.
Martin spent an hour on his initial voir dire. He was smooth and courteous, and he failed to make some of the mistakes that rookie lawyers tend to make at their first big trial. Judge Green didn’t get a single opportunity to embarrass him.
When Martin finally sat down, I got into character.
While he was speaking, I’d used the time to memorize the jurors’ names. I smiled and was meticulously polite to each of them. I thanked them for performing such a valuable public service and told them if I asked a question that made them the least bit uncomfortable, they could ask the judge to allow them to answer the question in private. I encouraged them to speak openly and honestly regarding their feelings on a wide range of topics, and as they spoke, I watched them closely, looking for any sign of discontent.
Despite Tom Short’s warning, a large part of my trial strategy was to deflect attention away from Angel and to put Reverend Tester on trial. If it was to succeed I needed jurors, preferably female jurors, who held sincere religious beliefs and would be deeply offended by the fact that
the pastor had used donations from a church to fund a night at a strip club. It was known in legal circles as the ”sumbitch deserved it” strategy, and under the right circumstances, it was highly effective.
I also wanted at least four males on the jury, preferably fathers. Angel had a way of engendering sympathy in men. I wanted them to feel an instinct to protect her. I wanted them to hope, perhaps to believe, that they could seek her out after the trial was over and let her know it was their vote, or their influence, that had set her free.
After three hours of questions and answers, challenges and arguments, Judge Green announced that a jury had been chosen. There were five men and seven women. I hadn’t been able to get every person I wanted on the jury because Frankie kept using his challenges to kick them off, but I felt good about the group sitting in the box.
The jurors were given buttons with their names on them, and the judge swore them in. He instructed them on how they should conduct themselves during the case and then looked up at the clock on the back wall.
”It’s noon. I’m hungry. We’ll adjourn until one thirty for lunch.”
After the jury was out of sight, the bailiffs escorted Angel back to the holding cell. Caroline had packed me a sandwich and some chips, and I spent the lunch hour going over my opening statement. At precisely one thirty, Judge Green walked back into the courtroom and ordered the bailiffs to bring the jury in.
I stood as the jury filed in and took their seats. I smiled and tried to catch the eye of each person passing the defense table.
”I trust you had a good lunch,” the judge said. ”Is the state ready?”
”Yes, sir.”
”Is the defense ready?”
”Yes, Judge.”
”Read the indictment, Mr. Martin.”
Martin stood and read the indictment that charged Angel Christian with knowingly, intentionally, and with premeditation taking the life of John Paul Tester. Count Two charged her with abusing the corpse by mutilation.
