As the force of Celeste’s words hit her, Anna’s eyes suddenly blurred with tears. She reached in her pocketbook for a tissue. “Sorry. I barely know him. I lost my husband, too, but the pain he carries, I feel—” she stopped. A strong wave of sorrow washed over her. “What’s happening to me?”
Celeste looked intently into her face. “Are you a Christian?”
Anna nodded through tears that pooled at the base of her eyes and threatened to cascade down her cheeks.
Celeste lightly touched Anna’s shoulder. “I’d say it’s a burden from the Lord.”
16
For a moment the lie becomes truth.
DOSTOEVSKI
Returning to the office, Mac walked through the door as Mindy put a caller on hold.
“It’s Pete Thomason,” she said. “He’s out for his exercise time.”
Mac took the call in the library.
“I’ve thought a lot about the stipulated lie-detector test,” Pete began. “I want to go ahead with another test. One that we can use in court. I’m sure I’ll pass it and get this thing over with.”
“I can’t recommend—”
“I know what you told me,” Pete interrupted.
Mac continued. “There’s no guarantee the State will dismiss the charges even if you pass.”
“But you said the case is circumstantial, and a test would prove I’m innocent.”
Mac started to argue, but stopped. “I’ll come by to see you later today.”
Bert Langley phoned a few minutes before five o’clock. The D.A. had an edge to his voice. “I just received the psychological report in the Thomason case from a Dr. Anna Wilkes in Chattanooga. What’s the deal playing dumb with me earlier today?”
Mac considered lying and claiming he’d never met Anna Wilkes in person before but said, “It was a misunderstanding. Sorry.”
“I’m not laughing, and I don’t think the judge is going to buy her theory that Thomason isn’t competent because he claims he can’t remember the night of the murder.”
“It would be a stretch,” Mac admitted.
“I faxed the report to Joe Whetstone, and he’s going to schedule another psychiatric evaluation for the defendant.”
“I thought that might happen. Do you know when?”
“Joe is aiming for this week, but I’ll give you at least twenty-four hours’ notice.”
“All right.”
Bert paused and continued in a calmer tone, “Okay, Mac. No more stonewalling. I can hear it in your voice. What else do you have? You have to tell me under the criminal discovery rules.”
“Nothing, except that your evidence is circumstantial and doesn’t fit the profile for a death penalty case. Withdraw the death penalty request.”
“Our case may be circumstantial, but we’ve got the guy at the scene of the crime with an opportunity to kill and a dead girl with Rohypnol in her system. You’d have to give me a good reason, a very good reason.”
“I’m working on it, but I don’t have anything yet.”
“What’s Ray Morrison uncovered?”
“Nothing that would convince you. ”
Bert shifted gears. “One other thing. Does Thomason want to submit to a stipulated polygraph with the GBI examiner?”
Mac wondered if someone at the jail had overheard Pete’s earlier call and tipped off the D.A. “If he passes it, would you dismiss the case?” he asked.
“I’ve already talked it over with some of the others here at the office. The Hightower family would be hard to convince. They’re sure Thomason is the man who killed their daughter. But if he passes a GBI test, it’s a different situation.”
“But you didn’t answer my question. If he passes a stipulated test, will you dismiss?”
“No promises. But I think Joe Whetstone would have a hard time trying to convince a jury that Thomason is the killer.”
“Okay.”
“And,” Bert added, “if Thomason fails the test, life without parole might look like a sweet deal compared to the only other alternative.”
The Beulah Land Christian Bookstore was located on the main street through Dennison Springs. The owner of the building rented space on the second floor to a small insurance agency, a telephone marketing outfit, and attorney David Moreland. The entrance to the upstairs offices was located on a side street near the rear of the building. Mac opened a glass door that screeched when it scraped across the tile floor. A small signboard listed David’s office as Suite 202.
Mac climbed the stairs and walked down the hallway to an opaque glass door on which was stenciled in gold paint, “David Moreland, Attorney at Law.” He opened the door and stepped into a tiny waiting room that contained three metal chairs and a small coffee table with an out-of-date issue of Newsweek on it.
“David, are you in there?” he called.
David peered around the corner. “Sorry I didn’t hear you. Welcome to my humble work quarters.”
Mac walked into David’s office. Two imitation-leather chairs served the needs of clients. The young lawyer’s desk looked suspiciously similar to the one used by Mac’s tenth-grade chemistry teacher, and he wondered if a close inspection might reveal a few pieces of dried chewing gum under the desk’s top. David’s diplomas hung in plain, black frames on the light green walls. A picture of David with a happy-looking beagle sat on the corner of the desk.
Mac picked up the picture. “Do you still have the dog?”
“Yes, that’s Bozo. He’s with my parents until I have a place to keep him.”
“Bozo?”
“He was a clown when he was little.”
“Nice-looking pup,” Mac said. “Is he AKC registered?”
“Yes. Championship bloodlines. His registered name is Reginald Balfour Carpathian, but he won’t answer to that. He likes Bozo.”
“I have two nice females and there is a big demand for good beagles around here. Maybe we could go into business on some pups.”
“Let me know and I’ll talk it over with Bozo.”
Mac loosened his tie. “So how’s the law business?”
“You know about the car wreck case, and I’ve taken in a couple of adoptions and a name change. I also have an invoice ready for submission to the county in the Thomason case.”
“Good. Give it to me and I’ll take it to the judge tomorrow for approval. Speaking of our client, I talked to Bert Langley at the D.A.’s office a few minutes ago.”
“And?”
“He’s probably willing to back off the death penalty request if we can show him something that shakes the State’s case.”
“Did you tell him about the other car?”
“No, not yet. But he suggested a GBI polygraph.”
“What did you say?”
“Nothing, but Pete called earlier today and demanded another test.”
“You’re kidding. I thought you talked him out of it the other day.”
“Apparently not.”
David drove his VW and followed Mac the four blocks from the bookstore to the jail. Looking in his rearview mirror, Mac smiled. Someday the young lawyer would have a decent office and drive a BMW.
They parked next to each other in front of the jail.
“How is the oil leak?” Mac asked.
“Manageable. Still a quart a week.” David stopped at the edge of the parking lot. “Before we meet with Pete, I need to ask you something.”
“Okay.”
“I’m uneasy about him submitting to a State-administered polygraph.”
“Spoken like a true defense lawyer. I’m going to oppose it as vigorously as I can.”
“Well, it’s more than that.” David stopped. “I don’t trust the GBI examiner.”
“I don’t know him. But it’s not likely he wants to win the defense lawyer’s best-friend award.”
“Actually,” David said slowly. “I prayed about this possibility over the weekend.”
Mac bit his lip. “Go ahead.”
David pulled a New
Testament with Psalms and Proverbs from his shirt pocket and began to talk more rapidly. “I believe Psalm 35 describes Pete’s case, especially verses 11 and 20: ‘Ruthless witnesses come forward; they question me on things I know nothing about. . . . They do not speak peaceably, but devise false accusations.’”
“Most defense lawyers would agree.”
“Yes, but I think it’s a warning for us in this particular case, and I’d like to mention it to Pete.”
“As a reason not to take a polygraph?”
“Yes.”
Mac hesitated. “I think it’s Russian roulette with four bullets in the gun for Pete to insist on another polygraph test, but it’s unprofessional to drag your intuition about the Bible into this case. It’s one thing for you to personalize biblical interpretation and rely on it yourself; it’s another to impose it on others, especially someone who is dependent on us for legal advice that affects whether he may live or die.”
David held his ground. “It’s not intuition, and I’m not trying to impose my will, but if he wants to take a polygraph test, I want to counsel him from every perspective.”
“Can you name a section in the Code of Professional Responsibility that covers legal advice based on the Bible?” Mac asked.
“A lawyer shall zealously represent the client?”
“Not good enough. Only if a client requested the type of counsel you want to give would I consider it a possibility, and then it would need to be clear that your comments were not offered as ‘legal’ advice.”
“Okay,” David backed off. “You’re the boss.”
“No, I’m the lawyer. The client is the boss.”
Forty-five minutes later they came out of the jail. Despite all Mac’s efforts to warn Pete of the dangers of a stipulated polygraph, the “boss” had made his demands clear.
“I hope I do a better job convincing the jury than I did our client,” Mac sighed. “I’ll call Bert Langley in the morning so he can set up the GBI test. Do you want to attend? You can’t be in the room, but you could get a feel for how the process works.”
“Yes. I’d like to be there, for better or for worse.”
The following morning Mac phoned Bert Langley and asked him to schedule the polygraph exam. In less than fifteen minutes Mindy buzzed him. “Bert Langley on line two.”
“Mac, the GBI polygraph is set for this afternoon at one o’clock at the Georgia Bureau of Investigation District Office in Cartersville. It’s about an hour’s drive, so Thomason will leave the jail at eleven-thirty if you want to talk to him before the test.”
“No. David Moreland is planning on coming.”
“Do you want him to sign the stipulation on admissibility?”
Mac started to agree, then remembered David’s reservations. “I’ll swing by your office and do it myself. David’s not familiar with the form. Anything else?”
“Joe Whetstone has scheduled an independent mental evaluation with a psychiatrist from Atlanta on Friday. You need to tell your client to cooperate.”
“Do you have the psychiatrist’s name and professional qualifications?”
“Joe is faxing it to us, and I’ll send it over as soon as I receive it.”
Ray Morrison arrived back in Dennison Springs about the same time Pete Thomason, in handcuffs and leg chains, entered the Georgia Bureau of Investigation District Office for northwest Georgia. David Moreland and the GBI examiner, Sergeant Tom Laird, a clean-cut officer in his early thirties, were waiting for him.
“I need to speak to my client for a minute,” David said.
The officer nodded. “There is a conference room down the hall on the left.”
Shuffling along, Pete followed David into the room, and they sat down. “You can still back out of this test,” David said.
“I told you yesterday that I’ve made up my mind. If you were in my shoes, you’d be looking for a way out of this mess. Waiting for something to turn up just won’t get it.”
“Okay. You need to pay attention to everything that happens during the test, and if it’s any different than the one you had at the jail I want to know about it.”
“I’ll pay attention. Will they tell me the results today?”
“I doubt it, but as soon as we know anything Mr. McClain or I will come by the jail and let you know.”
“Anything else?”
“No, just tell the truth.”
“I always have.”
David sat in the waiting area. And prayed.
While David waited, Mac received a fax with the results from Peachtree Lab on the burgundy paint sample lifted from Rodney McFarland’s truck.
His phone buzzed. “Ray Morrison is here to see you,” Mindy said.
“Good timing. Send him back.”
The private detective strolled into Mac’s office, sat down, and yawned.
“How was your trip?” Mac asked.
“Productive. I didn’t get back until late last night or I would have been by earlier today. I’ve written a report, but there are some things I wanted you to know right away.”
“Before you tell me, I have the results of the test on the paint sample from Mr. McFarland’s truck.” He handed the sheet to Ray.
The detective read aloud, “Lincoln Town Car, paint number 4659-3, marketed as ‘midnight purple.’ I owe Mr. McFarland an apology—he told me it was a purple car.”
“The chemist says it’s a specialty color, not very common. Vicki is checking with Ford to find out the number of midnight purple cars that were manufactured and how many were shipped and sold in the southeast region.”
“I have something for you to read,” Ray said. “Remember Joan Brinkley, Angela Hightower’s roommate?”
“Yes. Did you talk to her?”
“Yeah, and she gave me copies of two letters Angela wrote on Joan’s computer toward the end of the school year.” He handed two sheets of paper to Mac. “Read the short one first.”
Mac let out a sharp breath. He looked at the old grandfather clock, picked up the phone, and buzzed Vicki. “Call the GBI district office in Cartersville and get David Moreland on the phone as soon as possible.” While he waited, Mac read the letter to Angela’s parents. “This is incredible.”
Ray spoke, “The roommate says she mailed the letter to Spencer Hightower for Angela but doesn’t know if the other one was ever sent.”
“Did Spencer come to Hollins?”
“Not that I could find out. I talked to several other students and Angela’s faculty advisor but didn’t turn up anything else.”
Mac checked the clock again. It was one forty-five. He hoped that typical governmental inefficiency would have delayed the start of the test. He shifted nervously in his seat. “I can do something with these letters if Thomason hasn’t already sunk the case by failing a stipulated polygraph.”
“A polygraph? Why would you let him do that?”
Before Mac could answer, the phone buzzed and Vicki said, “David Moreland’s on line two.”
Mac punched the speakerphone button. “Have they started the test?”
“They took him in about an hour ago. What’s happened?”
“I don’t have time to explain. Knock on the door and stop the test. I mean immediately.”
David put down the phone without hanging up and started quickly toward the examination room. Before he reached it, the door opened and one of the deputies who drove Pete to the GBI office stepped out. Pete followed him. A second deputy emerged, then Sergeant Laird appeared.
“Are you the accused’s attorney?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“I found your client significantly deceptive on every relevant question. My written report will be ready in a couple of days.”
“No!” Pete yelled out. “That’s not right!” He jerked around and started toward the polygraph examiner.
“Get him out of here,” Laird told the deputies.
The deputies grabbed Pete’s arms and turned him toward the door. “Do something!” P
ete called out as the deputies half-led, half-dragged him out the front door.
“I want copies of the charts,” David demanded.
“You’ll have to talk to the D.A. about it,” Laird shot back. “Unless I hear from him, the charts stay with me.” Turning on his heel, he went back in the examining room and shut the door.
David walked slowly back to the phone. “It’s too late,” he told Mac.
“He’s already finished the test?”
“Yeah. He failed. Totally. The examiner found him deceptive on every relevant question.”
Mac swore. “That idiot! I’m holding two pieces of paper that could have been his tickets to reasonable doubt. What a stupid idiot!”
Mac’s face turned redder and redder. He sputtered for a few seconds and then said, “Come to my office. We’ll talk then.”
David said, “Yes, sir,” to a dead receiver.
At the news of the failed polygraph, Mac’s ten-second fantasy of hope for the Thomason case evaporated like a morning mist in July, but by the time David arrived at the office, he’d already started channeling his frustration into developing a new theory of defense. He met David in the library and laid Angela’s letters on the table. “Read these. You’ll see why I called.”
David picked up the sheets and quickly scanned them.
“Wow. Who is Spencer Hightower?” he asked.
“Alexander’s younger brother. I’d guess he’s in his midtwenties by now.”
“What do you know about him?”
Mac began pacing. “There’s been gossip about him for years. All I remember is that Spencer is a lot younger than Alex and a bad egg. From the looks of what you have in your hand, he’s a thoroughly rotten egg. The kind of person a jury would love to hate.”
“But even with these letters there’s no real connection between him and Angela’s death.”
“I don’t have to prove that Spencer personally killed Angela. He could have hired someone to do it. All I have to do is convince the jury that Spencer might have been behind the murder. That’s enough for a reasonable doubt about Pete’s guilt. I could argue two motives. First, he’s insanely angry in a twisted way because she rejected him. Second, he wanted her dead so he could control more of the Hightower money.”
“Your second point isn’t mentioned in the letters.”
The Trial Page 14
