The Trial

by Robert Whitlow

  “It’s help yourself, all you can eat,” Mac said to David. “No waiters or waitresses to bother you. The rolls are so-so, but the vegetables and fried chicken are the best in the area.”

  Mac always started out with the same assortment: creamed corn, green beans, pan-fried okra, fried chicken, and iced tea. The young lawyer followed Mac’s lead, except he opted for mashed potatoes instead of okra.

  They found a table in the corner of the busy restaurant and sat down.

  “I want to hear about your offer, David,” Mac said. “But not until you’ve had at least one plateful.”

  “Fair enough,” David said. He briefly bowed his head before beginning to eat.

  After his fork had made one round of everything on his plate, David wiped his mouth with a white paper napkin. “This is good. I’ve been eating my own cooking for four months.”

  “Myself for almost nine years,” Mac said. “Without Josie I’d be skin and bones.”

  David took a folded sheet of paper from his pocket and handed it to Mac.

  “Here’s something I’d like you to look over while you eat.”

  It was a résumé. Mac quickly learned that David Moreland attended Vanderbilt University on an academic scholarship and graduated with honors from the University of Tennessee Law School, where he was notes editor for the Law Review. While in school, he clerked one summer for Fletchall, Hammontree, and Thames in Nashville.

  Handing the paper back to David, he asked, “What in the world are you doing in Dennison Springs? With that résumé, you could land a job with some of the best firms in the southeast.”

  David took a sip of tea. “Let me ask you a question. Why are you in Dennison Springs?”

  “I did fair in school but nothing like you.”

  “If you had been notes editor on the Law Review, would you still want to be sitting in Josie’s today?”

  Mac nodded. “Probably, yes. But I’m from here. This town is my home.”

  “Granted. Let me explain my own situation as best as I can.” David captured the last bite of creamed corn with his fork. “I received a job offer from the Fletchall firm in Nashville. It’s a forty-six-lawyer outfit that handles a lot of interesting stuff in the music industry. One of their clients is Shania Twain.”

  “Never heard of her. Any relation to Mark?”

  “Different generation. It was a financially lucrative opportunity for a poor boy from east Tennessee, but when the time came to make a decision, I turned them down.”

  “Why?”

  David hesitated. “For a variety of reasons I won’t go into right now. Anyway, Vernon Moore called me last spring,” David said, referring to an older lawyer in town. “He’d heard about me through a Christian legal network and phoned to find out if I was interested in a job. I drove down and liked him and the area. I love the mountains and didn’t want to work in a concrete tower where the woods seemed as far away as the moon.”

  “That’s something I can understand,” Mac said.

  “We came to an agreement, and I scheduled the bar exam for July. Then, as you know, Mr. Moore suffered a stroke and had to retire.”

  “Time-out,” Mac said, looking across the room. “There are two bowls of peach cobbler with our names on them waiting at the dessert table.”

  Halfway through the cobbler, Mac said, “Back to your story.”

  “Okay. I took the bar exam and received my pass notice two months ago. Most of Mr. Moore’s clients with pending cases couldn’t wait for me to be licensed and hired other lawyers, but he was able to give me a little business, and I have enough money to buy your lunch today.”

  “We’ll see about that in a few minutes. I want to hear your irresistible offer.”

  “Yes, sir. I would like to work with you on the Thomason case.”

  “I see.” Mac paused. “You’re not looking for a job as an associate at my office?”

  “Not immediately, but I thought if we worked together on a big case it might lead to something more permanent. We could leave the possibility open.”

  Mac put down his spoon. “What is your experience in criminal cases?”

  “Two DUI clients who pled nolo contendere and a shoplifting charge that was dismissed at preliminary hearing because the manager of the convenience store didn’t show up.”

  “No public defender work while you were in law school?”

  “No. Of course, I took a semester of criminal law and procedure.”

  “And made an A.”

  “No,” David shook his head. “I made a B-minus. It was the lowest grade I received in law school.”

  “I can’t remember what I made in criminal law and procedure,” Mac said. “Most of what you need to know you learn by doing. That’s why it’s called ‘law practice’ .”

  David leaned forward in his seat. “Mr. McClain, I’ve heard you’re one of the best lawyers in town, and I’m willing to do anything you need me to do.”

  Mac took a drink of tea. “Thanks for the compliment, and I appreciate your offer. But the answer is no. Two reasons. First, State versus Thomason is an appointed case, and Judge Danielson is not going to spend taxpayer money so two lawyers can ride around in the car and eat lunch at Josie’s. If you were a pathologist or a chemist there would be no problem, but the judge knows I can handle the case without legal help. Second, you do not know the professional ramifications of involvement in this particular case. Angela Hightower’s parents are not going to be favorably disposed toward the lawyer or lawyers who vigorously defend the man they believe killed their daughter. The Hightower family has significant influence in this community. Their opposition would make it much more difficult for you to establish your law practice, and you need help, not hindrances.”

  David couldn’t hide his disappointment. “What about you? You don’t strike me as an antiestablishment type.”

  Mac smiled. “I’m not a former hippie, but I burned my Hightower draft card a long time ago.”

  “How did that happen?”

  “One of my first cases after I opened my law practice involved a riparian rights dispute with a Hightower company that operated a phosphate mine near a little town named Elon. The mine was polluting the water supply for the community.”

  “Sounds like a law school exam question.”

  “It was. This occurred years before the creation of the Environmental Protection Agency. After the company ignored several letters, I filed a suit for an injunction and damages in Echota Superior Court. A few days later, Cecil Hightower called and asked me to dismiss the lawsuit. He dropped a big hint that there might be a generous retainer in my future as a local counsel for Hightower and Company. When he couldn’t bribe or cajole me into withdrawing from the case, he threatened to ruin my law practice. I hung up on him.”

  “Did you win the case?”

  “No. But I learned that high-stakes litigation is take-no-prisoners warfare. I faced a battery of Hightower lawyers who filed motions I’d never heard of. They objected every time I opened my mouth and raised arguments I never anticipated. I lost on a technical motion at the conclusion of the case. I appealed to the Court of Appeals and Georgia Supreme Court but lost four to three. Years later, the mine closed rather than face federal scrutiny. But the damage to me was done. In thirty years of law practice, I’ve never represented any banks or businesses with Hightower connections. A local lawyer told me not long ago about a memo from a Hightower executive in which I was mentioned as an ‘opponent of our interests in the area.’”

  “Is Cecil Hightower the father of the girl who died?”

  “Grandfather. He’s been dead for years. Angela’s parents are Alex and Sarah Hightower. They live in a mansion somewhere in north Atlanta but spend a month here in the summer. I’ve never met them. They were staying at their Dennison Springs place when Angela died.”

  Mac looked at his watch, realizing that he needed to get back to the office.

  “Lunch is on me,” Mac said, picking up the bill and signing his
name. “I have a monthly account here. It’s been nice getting to know you, David. Maybe we can get together again after the Thomason case is over.”

  David was silent during the ride back to town, and Mac left him with his thoughts. When they pulled into Mac’s office, David asked, “Can I make a closing argument?”

  “Make it brief.”

  “I appreciate your concern for my professional future, but I didn’t become a lawyer to run from challenges. I want to work on the case. If you change your mind, my offer is still open.”

  Mac looked at David’s face and saw something vaguely familiar—a determined expression he’d seen when he looked in the mirror at himself as a young lawyer before going to court. “Argument noted,” he said.

  7

  The face is the mirror of the mind, and eyes without speaking confess the secrets of the heart.

  ST. JEROME

  Toothpick resting casually between his teeth, Ray Morrison sauntered like a contented bear into Mac’s office at 10:05 the next morning. The big man’s greatest gift as an investigator was an ability to draw people into conversation. Ray never threatened, never raised his voice. He would simply start asking questions and, like an old-fashioned painless dentist, extract the relevant information from the mouth of the witness. Many times over the years Mac had hired Ray to interview a reluctant witness. Almost without fail, the detective would reappear at Mac’s office a few days later with an affidavit or taperecorded statement containing everything the lawyer needed.

  “Where do you want me to start?” Ray asked as soon as he settled comfortably in his seat.

  “You know the basic facts from the newspaper?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Let me supplement what you’ve read.” Mac summarized his conversation with Gene Nelson and his initial review of the file.

  “So I need to see Mr. McFarland in Morganton,” Ray said when Mac finished.

  “Yes. It’s a couple hours’ drive. He has no phone, and at his age I doubt he works a job.”

  “I know someone in the area I can call before I make the trip. He knows the back roads better than anybody else.”

  Mac continued, “Also, look over this list of law enforcement officers who may testify in the case.” Mac handed him the D.A.’s witness sheet. “I can’t make them talk to me, but there might be one or two who will answer a few questions voluntarily if the right person does the questioning.”

  Ray ran his large index finger down the list. “The GBI agents are out—no possibility of the detectives helping us. The only person I might have a chance with is one of the deputies who arrived at the accident scene on the mountain.”

  “Which one?”

  “Tim Logan. His daddy worked with me years ago. Tim is the same age as my son, Larry, and his father and I used to take the boys to the Lake Winnepesoka amusement park when they were little. Tim was a good kid, and I bet he’s a solid officer. He might talk to me.”

  “Give it some thought. No use wasting time on a rehash of what’s already in the file. Anything else jump out at you?” Mac asked.

  “Naw, but give me some time. It takes my brain longer to get in gear than it used to.”

  “Call me as soon as you talk to Mr. McFarland. We’ll wait on Logan for the time being.”

  “Right.”

  Mac followed Ray into the reception area. “Thanks,” he said.

  “We’ll chop this thing up and stack it neatly before we’re done.”

  Mac checked his phone messages on Mindy’s desk while Ray walked to the door and left.

  Once he was gone, Mindy asked, “Does he carry a gun? I thought I saw a bulge under his coat.”

  Mac looked up. “That was probably a sausage biscuit. I don’t think he carries a gun. He uses a lethal form of karate known as Koo Fu Mu. His hands and feet are registered with the FBI and the CIA.”

  Mindy’s eyes widened. “Wow.”

  Mac walked back to his office, smiling. It wasn’t fair. Mindy was too easy a target.

  Mac phoned the psychologist’s office and left a callback message.

  Close to five o’clock, Mindy buzzed him.

  “Dr. Anna Wilkes on line one.”

  Mac picked up the receiver and in his best professional manner said, “Hello, Dr. Wilkes, thanks for calling me back.”

  “Hold for Dr. Wilkes, please,” a deep male voice responded.

  Mac hated it when someone did that to him. He’d wasted his best hello on a guy who probably helped the psychologist put straight-jackets on people.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. McClain,” a pleasant female voice came on the line. “Sorry I didn’t call earlier.”

  The psychologist’s tone diffused Mac’s irritation. “Oh, that’s okay. Thanks for agreeing to evaluate my client.”

  “Glad to do it. Is everything arranged?”

  “I’ve reserved an interview room at the Echota County Jail for Thursday afternoon beginning at one o’clock. Do you need directions?”

  “I’ve been through Dennison Springs several times. The jail is near the courthouse, isn’t it?”

  “Next-door. Do you know anything about this case?”

  “No. I’m sure it was mentioned in the Chattanooga paper, but I must have missed it.”

  Mac checked a sheet of paper on his desk. “I won’t go into the facts, but I’d like you to determine the defendant’s competency to stand trial, give your assessment of his mental capabilities, and provide an opinion of his psychological condition, including any mitigating factors in case of a conviction.”

  “Sounds like a standard evaluation. When will you need my report?”

  “Within a week of the evaluation if possible.”

  “I could probably fax it by then and mail a copy to anyone else who needs it.”

  “That will be great. I’m going to talk to Thomason this evening about the evaluation. I’ll prepare him then.”

  “Good.”

  “Your office should send your bill to me for submission to the court.”

  “I have a note to that effect from Ms. Lorain at your office.”

  “Do you have any other questions?”

  “Is the case on the court docket for trial?”

  “Pending. I was recently appointed to represent the defendant, and the judge is giving me time to prepare the case. It will definitely be tried before the end of the year.”

  “Please give me as much notice as possible of a trial date so I can adjust my schedule if my testimony is needed by either side.”

  “Of course. Anything else?”

  “No. That’s it for now.”

  Very efficient. He liked everything he heard except “if my testimony is needed by either side.” The State had a long list of witnesses they could call. Mac needed a name to put on his side of the witness ledger.

  Mindy buzzed him again.

  “Yes?”

  “You know the new karate center on Henderson Avenue?”

  “Yeah, I’ve seen it.”

  “They offer Koo Fu Mu training.”

  “They do?”

  “Yes. I’m thinking about taking it. You never know what kind of nut might come in the office. I need to be able to protect you.”

  “Uh, sure.”

  “I’m leaving now. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Puzzled, Mac put the phone receiver back in the cradle.

  Mac stopped by the jail to see Pete. Once again, his client followed him into the interview room and slumped down in a chair.

  “I’ve arranged for a psychologist to interview you tomorrow afternoon,” Mac began. “Her name is Dr. Anna Wilkes from Chattanooga. What you tell her is not confidential and will be included in a report sent to me, the district attorney, and the judge.”

  “Why a psychologist? I’m not crazy; I just don’t remember anything.”

  “Maybe there’s a reason you can’t remember. She’ll ask a lot of questions about your background and administer some psychological and mental aptitude tests. It’s all righ
t to tell her that you tried pot in high school, but don’t mention the incident that led to your discharge from the Marines.”

  “I’m not an idiot, either.”

  “I didn’t say you were. It’s my job to give you advice whether you want it or not.”

  “How is this going to help my case?”

  “We don’t know. But it’s worth the risk to find out what we can from a neutral professional.”

  Pete put his hands on the table. “Okay. Maybe I need to see a psychologist. I’ve wracked my brain trying to remember what happened that night, but whether I’m awake or asleep there’s a black hole, and I can’t see into it.”

  “You had a lot of drugs in your system.”

  “But I didn’t take any drugs. I—”

  “Wait a minute,” Mac interrupted. “Let’s stop there. How do you explain the results of the blood test, the amphetamines and barbiturates?”

  “How do I know whose blood they tested? They could have used a blood sample from a drunk guy who stumbled into the hospital.”

  “Doubtful, and that doesn’t explain the fact that you passed out in the back of the patrol car on the way to the hospital.”

  “Angela and I didn’t have anything except a glass of wine with dinner.”

  “Are you sure that’s all?”

  Pete pushed away from the table and raised his voice a notch louder, “Would it help if I lied?”

  “No, but it’s my experience that even in unusual situations the truth makes sense. Remember, everything you tell me is confidential.”

  “I don’t have any experience being charged with murder, and there’s nothing else I can tell you.”

  “Okay. But if you remember anything, anything at all, I need to know.” Mac stood to leave. “Oh, one other thing. I’ve hired the best private investigator in the area. He will be interviewing some of the people on the State’s witness list.”

  “Witnesses? The other lawyer didn’t tell me there were any witnesses.”

  “Not that kind of witness. Just people who may give testimony at the trial. Do you know anyone he should contact?”