“I guess it couldn’t hurt anything to pray,” Mac said. “We need every source of help available.”
Pete shrugged. “I’ve been praying. What else can I do lying in my bunk night after night? But it hasn’t done any good.”
Mac slid a stack of papers across the table. “Here is the report from Dr. Wilkes, the psychologist. Don’t try to read it now, but some of her findings are helpful. You’re not a psychopath, and she says you’re unable to offer proper assistance to us as your lawyers because you can’t remember anything that happened the night Angela died.”
“That makes sense.”
“It does, but it probably won’t convince the judge to rule that you are incompetent to stand trial. I’m sure the State will schedule another evaluation with a psychologist or psychiatrist of their choosing. I’ll let you know.”
“What about the blood test?” Pete asked. “Do you have the results?”
Mac steadied himself for an explosion. “The blood test came back from the lab in Atlanta. There was no sign of Rohypnol in your bloodstream.” Pete didn’t explode. Instead, he deflated, and in a subdued tone asked, “Why can’t I remember, then?”
Mac pushed back his chair and rubbed his temples. “Nobody knows. Nobody.”
14
Your ears will hear a voice behind you saying, “This is the way, walk in it.”
ISAIAH 30:21 (NIV)
As they walked across the parking lot away from the jail, Mac asked, “What do you think of our client?”
“I guess I agree with Mr. Davenport,” David said.
“Inconclusive?”
“Yes.”
“He’s not the easiest guy to help,” Mac said. “Sometimes a defendant will concoct a story about the charges against him that lets him off the hook. Then, while he’s locked up, he goes over it in his mind until he actually believes it himself and repeats it in convincing fashion to his lawyer. Pete’s approach is different. He claims he’s not guilty, but he has no story—true or otherwise.”
They reached their cars. “Let’s go back to my office for a few minutes,” Mac suggested. “It’s Friday afternoon.”
“Okay.”
They went into the library. During a major trial, the normally peaceful library became the war room. In a few weeks, the room’s dark-hued wooden table and crimson oriental rug would be covered with pleadings, reports, and exhibits.
Mac paced back and forth. He told David about Ray’s interview with Rodney McFarland.
“That’s a tidbit,” David said.
“But we need something the jury can sink its teeth into. If Pete is unable or unwilling to provide a plausible story about the night of August second, we need to do it for him. A story that will explain the drugs in his and Angela’s system and why she died.”
“Did you read my suggestion that someone should interview Angela’s college friends? Maybe they could give us some insight into Angela’s relationships. You know, maybe uncover another angle of attack against the State’s case.”
“Yes, and I think it’s a good idea.”
Mac buzzed Vicki and summoned her to the library.
“Vicki, I want to send Ray Morrison to Hollins University in Roanoke.”
“The girls’ school?”
“He’ll fit right in. Angela Hightower was a student there. Check flights from Chattanooga to Roanoke. I’ll call Ray before I go home or first thing Monday morning.”
When Vicki left the rom, Mac asked David, “What else?”
David thought a moment. “Nothing comes to mind.”
Mac stopped pacing and looked at his watch. “It’s almost five o’clock. Would you like a cold one?”
“Sure.”
“Still spring water?”
“Yes.”
Mac returned with two cold mugs, a beer, David’s water, and a bowl of pretzels. He set the pretzels in the middle of the table and said, “Spring water and pretzels. That’s a new combination.”
Mindy peeked into the library and smiled at David. “Is there anything I can do for you before I leave?”
Mac turned the beer bottle up and poured the last drops into the white foam that touched the top rim of his mug. “No, thanks. Have a good weekend.”
Mindy gave David one last look and retreated.
“Today, I’d like to talk while we drink,” Mac said.
David took a sip of water. “What do we talk about?”
Before answering, Mac took a long drink and released a satisfied sigh. “Let’s see. We can’t talk about the respective merits of lager and Pilsner beers. And one spring water is the same as another. Are you a college football fan?”
“Not really. Remember, I went to Vanderbilt. ‘Go Commodores.’”
Mac nodded. “Of course. That makes football a painful subject. Did you have a favorite team growing up?”
“I was a baseball player as a kid, always played second base. I grew up splitting my allegiance as a fan between the Braves and the Reds, but mostly went to see the Smokies, the double-A team in Knoxville. I never got too excited about football and only went to a few games when I was in law school at Tennessee. I saw the Georgia-Tennessee game two years ago.”
Mac remembered the result. It was worse than the most recent Georgia loss. “No, let’s not talk about that game.” He took another drink before continuing. “Do you remember telling me at lunch the other day that there were other reasons why you turned down the job with the big law firm in Nashville?”
“Yes.”
“I’m curious what they were. I’d think it would have been a great opportunity.”
It was David’s turn to take a long drink. “Okay,” he said. “But it may be hard for you to accept.”
“Try me. This is my most receptive thirty minutes of the week.”
David picked up a pretzel. “God told me.”
“God?”
“Yes, God.”
“All right,” Mac said slowly. “God told you not to go to Nashville, Tennessee, and work for a prestigious law firm.”
David popped the pretzel in his mouth. “Not audibly, like in The Ten Commandments. He spoke to me through a verse in the Bible. That’s how I knew not to take the job.”
Mac put his mug down on a glass coaster. “As far as I know, the Bible we use in the Presbyterian church doesn’t mention the Fletchall law firm; Nashville, Tennessee; or Dennison Springs.”
“Right. But it’s similar to applying a legal precedent from an old case to a new set of facts. Here’s what I did. First, I prayed and asked God to direct my steps according to Proverbs 3:5–6.”
“Which says?”
“‘Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding. In all your ways acknowledge him and he will direct your paths.’ That put me in a place of dependence on the Lord to guide me. Then, I waited and continued praying.”
“What happened?”
“Do you have a Bible?”
“Uh, I think Judy has one on her desk.” Mac got up and returned in a moment with a small brown Bible. “Will this do?”
“Yes.” David continued, “A couple of weeks later, I was reading in Genesis about Abraham’s son Isaac. There was a famine in the land of Canaan, and Isaac considered a move to Egypt. His plan made perfectly good sense because with the Nile River as a reliable water source Egypt would be the best place to find food when times got tough.” David opened the Bible, flipped to a passage, and continued. “But it says in Genesis 26:2 that ‘ The Lord appeared to Isaac and said, “Do not go down to Egypt; live in the land I tell you to live.”’ When I read those words, I thought about my decision whether or not to move to Nashville. An old precedent, a new set of facts. Without a doubt I was living in a land of famine. You saw my car. When I leave your office, there will be a small spot of oil on the pavement because of a leak in my crankcase. And just like Egypt and the Nile to Isaac, Nashville represented security to me, a steady source of money and a way out of poverty. Over the next few days, I
continued to mull the whole thing over and became more confident that the Lord was directing me through the verses in Genesis not to go to Nashville. I called the hiring partner at the law firm and turned down the job.”
“Did you tell him this story about Isaac and Egypt?”
“No, I gave him a sanitized version. Basically, ‘Thank you for your offer, but I’m exploring other options.’”
Mac sat back in his chair. “Interesting. Do you know the problem I have with what you’ve told me?”
“That it’s too subjective.”
“Right.”
“That I could find a Bible verse to support any decision or plan that suited my fancy,” David said.
Mac smiled. “Counselor, you’re doing a good job anticipating the judge’s response to your position.”
“I can’t deny the subjective component of receiving direction from God. However, even though we like to think we’re completely rational, reason-oriented creatures, a lot of what we think and do is not based on objective assessment of facts and data. I’ve never been in love, but I don’t expect it’s a completely rational experience.”
Mac stared past David’s shoulder at the bookcase behind him. “I have. It isn’t.”
“And I’ve been told there are levels of communication that only a man and woman who love each other can experience. It’s the same between a Christian and Jesus. My personal relationship with the Lord is the doorway to communication with him.”
“Every woman on the jury is eating out of your hand.”
“Thanks,” David said with a grin. “This communication thing involves risk, but I’ve decided to take my chances. I mean, if I’d gone to Nashville, I wouldn’t be here to help you.”
“And I hope you’ve just begun to help.” Mac drained the last drops of his beer. “Interesting. I don’t ever remember a conversation quite like this on the porch of my college fraternity house on Friday afternoons. How to talk with God didn’t come up on a regular basis.”
After David left, Mac called Ray’s office but couldn’t reach him and decided not to bother his friend at home. Vicki left a memo about airplane flights to Roanoke on Mac’s desk—the earliest available flight didn’t leave until Tuesday morning. Monday would be soon enough to talk to Ray. Mac took the two empty mugs to the kitchen and thought about David Moreland. The young pilgrim was a piece of work. A high IQ, but some strange ideas.
Mac spent a quiet weekend at home. There was no football game on Saturday afternoon to occupy his time, so he stacked wood and made a valiant effort to rake most of the leaves that covered the small patches of grass in the front and rear of his house. Flo and Sue loved leaf-raking time. For them, every pile was an open invitation to hidden adventure. They waited until Mac accumulated a large mound, then they dove in, burrowed down, and stayed completely still for about ten seconds before exploding out to chase each other around the house. A houseful of ten-year-old boys couldn’t have caused more mischief. Mac let them play until their tongues hung out. Then he put them in their pen and finished his work.
Mac sat on the deck for an hour or two in the evening. At first, he thought about the Thomason case, but then his thoughts shifted to his lunch with Anna and Hunter Wilkes. He had enjoyed Hunter and appreciated a boy that was not so bound by fear, shyness, or the effects of MTV that he couldn’t talk to an adult or consider trying something new. Mac had served as a Boy Scout troop leader when his sons were coming through the ranks, and he’d forgotten how much he enjoyed the company of youngsters.
When Mac went to bed, no nightmares disturbed his rest, and he slept later than usual. Because there was no football game to discuss in Sunday school, Mac didn’t go to church.
It was midafternoon on Monday before Ray Morrison appeared at Mac’s door.
“Do you have your bags packed?” Mac asked.
“I travel light. I have enough stored in here”—Ray patted his stomach— “to last three or four days.”
“More like three or four hours. Can you make a quick trip to Hollins University in Roanoke, Virginia, and interview Angela’s college roommate or anyone else you turn up? Vicki has checked on flights. You leave Chattanooga at eight-fifteen tomorrow morning, be in Roanoke by nine-ten, snoop around all day, and catch an afternoon flight at six-thirty. You’ll be home for a late supper.”
Ray looked down at the floor. “Tomorrow is fine, but what if the plane crashes and I’m killed?”
“What? You don’t want to fly? You flew in the military, didn’t you?”
“Uncle Sam didn’t give me a choice, but as a civilian I’d rather ride backward on a mule to Virginia than crawl into a twin prop from Chattanooga to Roanoke.”
Mac chuckled. “Suit yourself, and I promise not to tell anyone you’re human. You can drive to Bristol then cut over through southwest Virginia.”
“Don’t worry about the navigation. My Ford mule and I will get there.”
“Okay. Here’s the plan. I want to know anyone who may have had a serious grudge against Angela: jilted boyfriend, groundskeeper who stalked her, professor who tried to proposition her, jealous classmate. Who knows? Just put your nose to the earth and see where it leads.”
“Do you know her roommate’s name?”
“Yes, the State has her on their witness list for the sentencing phase of the trial.” Mac tore off a sheet of yellow legal-size paper and handed it to him. “Joan Brinkley from Fayetteville, North Carolina. Vicki checked, and she’s enrolled again this year. Lives on campus in a dorm.”
“I think I’ll drive up tonight and go to the school early in the morning before classes start for the day.”
“Fine. Call me if you need anything.”
Joan Brinkley’s campus address in hand, Ray left Mac’s office, stopped by his house to kiss Peggy good-bye and drove through the night to Roanoke. Arriving at 2:00 A.M., he checked into a motel near the Hollins campus for a few hours’ sleep, and by seven o’clock the next morning was sitting outside the door of the dean of students, waiting for the office to open.
Nestled in the mountains of southwestern Virginia, Hollins had survived the Civil War of the 1860s and the feminist movement of the 1960s. The later period had been a bigger threat, and at the time some educators predicted that women’s liberal arts colleges would go the way of the hoop skirt. The experts, as usual, proved wrong.
The central campus area, known as the Quad, was classic, small Southern college—old brick buildings positioned around a grassy rectangle and a handful of enormous oak trees. The administration building was surrounded by a fifteen-foot-wide wooden porch perfect for lazy strolls and casual conversations.
Dr. Marjorie Plant, dean of the thousand young women enrolled at the school, arrived at her office promptly at 7:59 A.M. She found a sleepy-eyed Ray Morrison slouched down on the narrow bench beside the door.
“May I help you?” she asked.
“Yes, ma’am. My name is Ray Morrison, and I’m a private detective from Georgia, working on the Angela Hightower murder case. Could I talk to you for a minute?”
“Yes, of course.” Dr. Plant unlocked the door and led Ray through the secretarial area into her own office, a large, book-lined room that overlooked the Quad. “Have a seat. I thought they caught the man who murdered Angela.”
“They have arrested a young man, but he’s not gone to trial. I’m working for the lawyer representing him.”
“I see,” the dean said crisply. “Then I’m not interested in talking to you. We want justice in this horrible matter, not someone escaping punishment.” She got up from her seat, signaling the end of their brief conference. Ray didn’t move his large frame. He had not driven most of the night and sat on a hard wooden bench for an hour to give up easily. He kept talking.
“Dr. Plant, when a complaint is brought against a student, do you immediately decide to punish her by suspension or dismissal from the school?” he asked.
“No,” Dr. Plant said, standing beside her desk. “But this is murder, not pull
ing a fire alarm as a prank in a dormitory.”
“Exactly my point, ma’am. How much more the need to thoroughly investigate the situation before rushing to judgment. If the boy’s guilty, so be it, but I’ve been a police officer for many years and the initial evidence doesn’t always point to the guilty party. You can’t jump to conclusions.”
Still standing, the dean hesitated. “What do you want?”
“Not much really. I would like to talk to Joan Brinkley, Angela’s roommate last year. Perhaps Joan knows other girls who could provide information.”
“About what?”
“Nothing complicated. Do the girls know anyone in the area who may have had a negative relationship with Angela? Things like that.”
Dr. Plant tapped the corner of her desk. “All right. You can talk to Joan, but only here at the administration building and only if she wants to meet with you.”
“That will be fine. Thank you.”
Dr. Plant took Ray across the hall to the boardroom. While he waited, Ray looked at the portraits of former presidents of the school that lined the walls. One of the early leaders was a serious-looking fellow named Horace R. Morrison, Ph.D. Probably a relative of mine, Ray yawned. In a few minutes, the door opened and in walked a slender, blue-eyed young brunette carrying a red backpack loaded to capacity with heavy books.
“I caught her on the way to an early class,” said Dr. Plant. “Joan, this is Mr. Morrison, a private detective. I have given him permission to ask you some questions about Angela, but if something comes up that makes you uncomfortable you do not have to talk any further with him. Just let me know. I’ll be in my office.”
“Thank you, Dr. Plant,” Ray said.
When the door closed, Ray sat down at the long conference table that stretched the length of the room.
“Hi,” he said. “Why don’t you lighten your load for a few minutes?”
“Okay,” the girl said with a nervous laugh, slipping off her backpack. “I wasn’t expecting you to come. Actually I wasn’t sure anyone would come. You know, I didn’t know if it was important or not about the letters. I don’t have them, the letters she got. But I know Angela wrote to her parents after the third one. I didn’t know if it was a big deal, but then she was killed, and I didn’t know if it was important or not.” A tear escaped from Joan’s eye and ran down her cheek. “Here, I’ll show you.”
The Trial Page 12
