“Right. But everyone knows that the prospect of lots of money can drive people to do crazy things, even people who already have more money than the rest of us. Old Cecil Hightower may have tied up Spencer’s inheritance in all kinds of trusts, and the only way Spencer can get to it is to kill everyone else in the family. He started with the weakest member—Angela.”
“That’s far-fetched.”
“Probably so. But if I can show that Spencer is mentally unstable, introduce the letters, and mention the Hightower wealth, the jury’s imagination can take them the rest of the way. I guarantee you that one juror who believes this case is a big, mysterious conspiracy will carry a lot of weight when it comes time to deliberate a verdict.”
“What do we do now?” David asked.
“Tie Pete to a post and give him a whipping. If he hadn’t insisted on the polygraph test, we’d have the upper hand. Those letters from Angela don’t prove anything, but they raise the kind of questions that could sway a jury or influence Bert Langley to back away from the death penalty. You were right about the polygraph—I should have let you hit Pete over the head with the biggest, blackest Bible you could find.”
“There’s one other thing we haven’t considered,” David said.
“What?”
“That the results of the GBI polygraph are correct. If they are, Pete Thomason deserves to die.”
17
The unfeigned faith that is in thee, which dwelt first in thy grandmother Lois, and thy mother Eunice.
2 TIMOTHY 1:5 (KJV)
Mac and David worked quietly in the library as the hands of the clock in Mac’s office crept toward midnight. After several hours of legal research, their brains grew a little foggy. Mac closed a reference book and put down his pen.
“I’m done. This day has stressed me out,” he said.
“Me, too.” David logged off the computer he was using.
“I’ve been thinking about what you said about the polygraph test,” Mac leaned back in his chair and stretched. “You know, the fact that Pete may be guilty and deserves the electric chair.”
“It hit me today as they dragged him out of the GBI office. It was like the scene shifted, and I saw him being led to the electric chair.”
“You’re not claiming divine revelation of his future, are you?”
“No. It was probably my imagination.”
“Do you want out of the case?”
David hesitated. “No. I think I’m supposed to help.”
“Are you still sure?”
“Yes.”
“Good. I need it.” Mac stood up and stretched. “I’m going home and hope I don’t have nightmares about polygraph exams.”
“Is there any restriction on my access to Pete?” David asked. “I think one of us should see him tonight.”
“You can see Pete at three in the morning if you want to. Effective assistance of counsel is a twenty-four/seven proposition.”
It was 12:15 A.M. when David pulled into the jailhouse parking lot. He turned off the engine, put his head down on the steering wheel, and prayed.
Jesus had been a part of David’s life for as long as he could remember. As a youngster growing up in the shadow of the Smoky Mountains, he spent many an east Tennessee night with his head on his mother’s lap during revival meetings at the Mount Gilead Pentecostal Church. On a hot July night when he was eleven, he knelt on the floor and “prayed through” to an assurance of salvation.
David’s great-grandfather was a Pentecostal pioneer, part of a zealous band of men and women who burst out of the mountains of eastern Tennessee and western North Carolina in the early 1900s “full of fire and the Holy Ghost.” Wesleyan in theology without knowing much about John Wesley, and bold in evangelism without apology for their emotional appeals, the early Pentecostals jumped feetfirst into the rural communities where they lived. Jobs were lost and families divided, but many souls saved and lives transformed. By the time David’s grandfather began his ministry, the Pentecostal movement was no longer a wild, untamed river always threatening to overflow its banks. It still provided an exciting ride in spots, but it had begun to cut a deeper, wider channel.
David’s grandparents spent the first fifteen years of their marriage as missionaries to Argentina. The seeds that they, and others like them, planted in the hearts of the Argentinean people grew rapidly, and now there were more members of his grandparents’ denomination in Argentina than in the United States. David could sit for hours and listen to his grandmother tell stories about the salvations, healings, and miracles that flowed unchecked in the early years of their ministry in South America.
By the time David’s father and mother married in the early 1970s, the Pentecostals had finally achieved something that was unthinkable in the days of David’s great-grandfather or grandfather—respectability. The Mount Gilead Pentecostal Church had padded pews, a new Hammond organ, and an air-conditioned Sunday school wing. Except when an old-timer “got happy” and ran up the aisle or made a quick lap around the sanctuary, the worship services at Mount Gilead were not much different from other churches down the road. They even had a Sunday morning bulletin.
The deputy on duty didn’t raise any objections when David asked if he could see Pete, and in a couple of minutes, the young lawyer and his client were sitting in the interview room.
“Were you asleep?” David asked.
“No, there were some guys making a lot of noise in my cell, and I was still upset about today.”
“I’m sorry about the results of the test. Anything different about the procedure?”
Pete rubbed the top of his close-cropped head. “He asked the same kinds of questions, but the interview before the test was different.”
“How?”
“The way he talked to me was more like an interrogation than an interview. He told me it was impossible for the machine to be wrong and that he had caught tons of people in lies who had passed other polygraph tests. By the time he hooked me up and turned on the machine, I was so upset there was no telling what the needles were doing.”
“We can find out about the effect that kind of interview could have on the validity of the results.”
Pete slumped down. “I had my hopes up today. This has been tough.”
“I know. But there is another reason I came by.”
“What?”
“Did Angela ever talk to you about her Uncle Spencer?” David said.
“Who?”
“Her father’s younger brother. He’s not much older than you are.” “Oh yeah. I remember him. He was at the cookout when Angela and I first met. He kept to himself, and I wouldn’t have known who he was if someone hadn’t mentioned that he was Mr. Hightower’s brother. What does he have to do with my case?”
David told him about the letters. He finished by saying, “Mr. McClain was telling me about them when they brought you out of the examination room. We were going to stop the test. But it was too late.”
Pete hung his head. “I’ve totally messed up. I ought to be mad, but I don’t feel anything.”
“It’s done. We have to go on.”
“That’s easy to say. Hard to do.”
“So, did Angela ever mention Spencer?”
“Not that I remember. She didn’t tell me about him bothering her.”
“Did she ever mention any problems with other men?”
“No.”
“How many times did you date Angela?”
“Three or four. We were more friends than anything else.”
“No romance?”
“It might have led to that eventually, but we just hit it off as friends and did some things together. She didn’t have a boyfriend, and I wasn’t dating anybody.”
“What did you talk about?”
“Different things. Her school, my work. Religion.”
“Religion?”
“Yeah, she’d worked at a Christian camp for kids during the first part of the summer and had a religious experience. We ta
lked about God several times. I thought about it the other day when you said I should be praying.”
Maybe Pete was guilty; maybe not, but his comment about prayer was enough of an open door that David decided to see if he could squeeze through. “Could I pray something now?” he asked.
Pete hesitated, then he said, “Okay.”
David began, “Father God . . .”
After a call from Mac the next morning, Ray Morrison tracked down Deputy Tim Logan at Bodybuilder’s Inc., a health spa with a male clientele.
“Hey, Mr. Morrison,” Tim said.
“Good to see you, Tim. Still on third shift?”
“Yeah. I come here to work out before I go home and sleep.”
“What are you bench-pressing?”
“I work out with 200 to 225.”
Short and stocky, Tim lifted weights for strength and bulk. He had no interest in trying to mimic the well-oiled specimens who adorned the covers of magazines at the grocery store.
“Will you spot me?”
“Okay. Show me your max.”
Tim popped 275 pounds in the air, moved up to 300, and slowly raised 325 before getting up from the bench.
“I’ve gotten 340 up a couple of times, but I don’t want to bust a gut showing off and have to stay out of work for six months.”
“That’s good. Are you finished?”
“Yes, sir.”
The men sat down at a table in the spa’s refreshment area, and Tim took a few swallows of Gatorade. “I heard you were working on the Thomason case,” Tim said.
“That’s why I stopped by. Can I ask you a few questions?”
“Between you and me?”
“Yes. I won’t pass anything along without your permission.”
Tim wiped his head with a towel. “Ask me.”
“Why were you and Jefferson on the mountain?”
“We received a complaint about some rowdy teenagers camped on top and drove up to settle them down. After we finished tucking the kids in their tents, we got back in our patrol car and started back to town. That’s when the call came in about someone running a truck off the road.”
“Who was driving the patrol car?”
“I was. Jefferson was writing up a report about the campers.”
“After you received the call, did you meet any other cars coming up the mountain?”
“There wasn’t any traffic. It was after midnight.”
“Did you meet any cars at all?”
Tim paused. “You know, we did. I remember Jefferson was trying to drink a cup of coffee while writing his report about the campers when a dark car came around a corner a little too fast and came over in my lane. I jerked the wheel, and Jefferson’s coffee spilled on him and his report.”
“If you hadn’t been responding to the other call, would you have turned around and followed the car?”
“I doubt it. It wasn’t that bad.”
“Any idea on type of vehicle, color?”
“Nothing except that it was a dark color. Maybe black or dark blue.”
“Midnight purple?”
“I’m not sure what that looks like.”
“That’s okay, neither do I.”
“We slowed down at the overlook and spotted a bent guardrail. We thought it might have something to do with the call and stopped. I shined a light over the edge and saw the yellow Porsche. I scrambled down to the car. The Hightower girl was dead in the passenger seat.”
“Is there anything about the crime scene that’s not in your report?”
“No. We thought the girl died going over the edge of the cliff, but the autopsy showed otherwise.”
“I know that.” Ray paused. “Can this go on the record?”
“You think this other car may have been linked to the murder?”
“Possibly.”
Tim took another swig of Gatorade. “Yes, sir. It’s on the record.”
After talking with David about the way Sergeant Laird administered the stipulated polygraph examination, Mac steeled his nerve and called Bert Langley.
“Is your client ready to cave in?” Bert asked. “I can’t keep a life without parole deal on the table indefinitely.”
“No. I want to have an independent expert look at the charts from the exam.”
“I can get it to you, but your client is fried.”
After Mac hung up the phone, Ray lumbered through the door, sat down, and reported on his interview with Tim Logan.
“That’s a tie-in,” Mac said. He picked up a slip of paper from his desk. “Vicki located the information about midnight purple Lincolns. There were 1,689 manufactured during that particular model year and 478 of them were shipped to the southeast region.”
“That’s a lot of cars.”
“The southeast region includes eight states.”
“Where are we going to focus the search?”
“Chattanooga, Atlanta, and Spencer Hightower’s driveway,” Mac said. “Vicki will handle the car dealers in Chattanooga and Atlanta; you will check out young Mr. Hightower.”
“Is it in the big city?”
“Yeah. I know you don’t like Atlanta, but at least you don’t have to fly. He lives in a ritzy neighborhood near Lenox Square.”
“I can handle it. What else do you want me to find out?”
“Everything. I want to know how he likes his eggs Benedict.”
“Huh?”
“Find out if he eats grits for breakfast.”
After Ray left, Mindy buzzed Mac.
“Anna Wilkes on line one.”
“Is it her or the guy who works for her?”
“It’s her. She sounds nice.”
Mac kept it to a simple, “Hello.”
“How’s Pete doing?” Anna asked.
“Not too good. I’d better not go into any details, except that the State’s scheduled another psychiatric exam. For tomorrow afternoon.”
“Can you tell me who it is?“
“Yeah. I have the psychiatrist’s name and qualifications somewhere on my desk.” Mac shuffled through his papers. “Here it is. Dr. Louis Newburn. B.S. from University of Florida, medical and psychiatric training at Emory in Atlanta, Diplomate of American College of Psychiatry. Ever heard of him?”
“No.”
“Probably someone Joe Whetstone knows. I don’t expect much from him except to contradict your report.”
Anna was silent for a few seconds and Mac asked, “Are you still there?”
“Yes,” she said, then added quickly, “I’d like to pay you back for the two lunches by inviting you to supper with Hunter, my Aunt Jean, and me at my house tomorrow night.”
Mac almost dropped the phone. “Uh, tomorrow?”
“Yes. Since it’s Friday evening, I thought you might want a break.”
“I don’t know if I can. I’m working most nights keeping the rest of my practice afloat while pedaling as hard as I can in Pete’s case.”
“I know you’re busy, but everyone needs a break. Hunter has talked about you several times.”
The mention of Hunter stopped Mac’s racing thoughts. “Really?”
“Yes. He wants to show you his baseball card collection. Something about a few old cards he wants to ask you about.”
Mac chuckled. “Probably players younger than me. What time?”
“Would seven o’clock be too early? It’s a forty-five minute drive from Dennison Springs to my house.”
Mac decided to take the plunge. If things got too uncomfortable with the adults, he could sneak away with Hunter and look at baseball cards. “Seven would be fine. Where do you live?”
18
The sorrows of death compassed me.
PSALM 18:4 (KJV)
The next morning Mac had a lightness in his step. He took a deposit to the bank and on the way back bought a cup of flavored coffee at a new coffee shop that had opened around the corner from his office. When he opened the door to the office, he greeted Mindy cheerfully and walked past Judy’s
desk, whistling.
In a few minutes, Mindy came down the hall to see Judy.
“What’s going on?” she asked. “I thought I heard the boss whistling.”
“You did. He sailed past here with a cup of coffee and a smile on his face.”
“It’s a woman,” Mindy said confidently.
“No way,” Judy said, taking off her glasses. “He shut down after his wife’s death. Laura was a saint, and the field of eligible candidates in town is pretty slim.”
“It’s a woman,” Mindy repeated. “I can tell about these things.”
“If your womanly intuition is so accurate, who is it?”
“The psychologist from Chattanooga. Dr. Anna Wilkes. She is really nice on the phone.”
Judy shook her head. “All he’s done is talk to her on the phone a few times about a murder case. She’s probably married.”
“We don’t know that. They could be meeting on the side. I think it would be hard for a psychologist to find the right person. You know, they would analyze everyone they met and find out what was wrong with them.”
Mac came out of his office and gave Judy a dictation tape. In spite of her doubts, Judy couldn’t resist. “Mac, have you personally met the psychologist you hired in the Thomason case? Dr. Wilkes, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, several times. In fact, we ran into each other recently at the courthouse.”
“What’s she like?”
“Very competent and professional. I think she’ll make a good witness if we have to use her in the case.”
Mac turned away and went back to his office.
“See!” Mindy said. “I told you.”
Judy put the dictation tape in her transcriber. “Don’t jump to conclusions. He said she was competent and professional, not charming and attractive.”
Mac spent the rest of the afternoon on the phone and reviewing medical records in some of his other cases. He wondered several times how Pete was doing with the State’s psychiatrist. He thought about stopping by the jail after work but decided to wait until Saturday. He didn’t want to get tied up at the jail and be late for supper in Chattanooga.
At 4:45 P.M. he called David Moreland.
“Are you coming over for our weekly ritual?” he asked.
The Trial Page 15
