The Hightower’s former housekeeper was a dangerous negative. After working for Cecil Hightower for twenty years, she committed a petty theft at the Dennison Springs estate, and Cecil immediately fired her. Because of her long years of service no criminal charges were filed, but the woman told her family that she had been framed. Ten years later, she believed her own lies and harbored a considerable grudge against the Hightower family.
Doug Kendrick’s son would never sit on the jury. Joe knew Doug and Mac were friends and former schoolmates who had maintained a friendship for more than forty years. Judy’s neighbor was one of his stars. Her sister’s nephew had been shot in Birmingham five years before, and the killer escaped justice on a legal technicality. It wouldn’t take much to convince Mrs. Kidwell that another murderer did not need to avoid responsibility for his crimes.
Joe knew about the juror who had recently died, but he was also aware that numbers 57, 90, and 102 had sick family members, which would make it difficult for them to serve. Numbers 21 and 123 had criminal records even their spouses might not know about. Number 33 had been charged with murder in Idaho and acquitted after a jury deliberated for three days. Numbers 64 and 94 were former Marines who would respond favorably to Walter Monroe’s testimony. Number 78, Mrs. Lola Hawkins, was the daughter of a career prosecutor with the Cook County, Illinois, district attorney’s office and had probably heard enough of her father’s war stories to know better than to buy into a defense lawyer’s attempts to smoke screen the jury with half-baked theories designed to create reasonable doubt.
Like Napoleon on a hilltop, Joe was carefully marshaling his forces from a distance to coordinate his attack with measured confidence. The forensic evidence was solid. The law enforcement testimony and procedures meticulous and professional. The circumstances surrounding the discovery of the body convincing. The psychiatric report a tour de force. The stipulated polygraph a devastating blow to the defense. He would move forward deliberately, cut the throat of the defense’s case with surgical precision, and watch it bleed to death on the courtroom floor.
First thing Tuesday morning, Mac phoned Bruce Wilcox, the former Georgia Bureau of Investigation agent who had agreed to examine the charts of the two lie-detector tests taken by Pete.
“Mr. Wilcox. Mac McClain here. Did you review the charts we sent by FedEx last week?”
“Yes. I can see how the examiners reached dissimilar conclusions.”
“How do you explain the different results?”
“One of two possibilities. The subject is schizophrenic or one of the pretest interviews was significantly tainted.”
“If we omit schizophrenia, can you tell which one was based on a faulty interview?”
“Maybe. There is a big difference between the subject’s normal physiological response to the control, or nonthreatening questions, on the two tests. He was much calmer during the first than the second. Abnormal stress during control questions on the second test could make the responses to the relevant questions on that test unreliable. Frankly, based only on the charts, I found the results of both inconclusive.”
“Do you know either of the examiners?”
“I’ve seen Larry Waters at some training seminars, but I’m unfamiliar with Sergeant Laird.”
Mac wrote some notes on a pad. “If shown the two charts in court, could you explain the differences in a way the jury could understand?”
“If you ask the right questions.”
“You understand my dilemma?” Mac asked.
“The admissibility of the second polygraph is stipulated and the first is not,” Wilcox responded. “You need a backdoor way to let the jury know the results of the first test because at least it supports an argument that the subject didn’t use any drugs.”
“Exactly,” Mac said.
“I’ve seen this situation twice in twenty-five years. It’s not common, but if you can convince the judge to let me testify, I’m willing to render an opinion.”
“The trial begins next week. What’s your schedule?”
“I can juggle my responsibilities with forty-eight hours’ notice.”
“I’ll send you a subpoena and place you on call.”
After hanging up the phone, Mac went to the jail to brief Pete on the events of the past few days. When his young client came down the hall, he looked more like a recruit coming in from the parade ground than a bedraggled prisoner.
“You’re looking sharp this morning,” Mac said.
“Thanks.”
Once they were seated, Mac briefly told him about Bruce Wilcox and gave a detailed account of Harry O’Ryan’s latest version of the boot-camp incident. “Harry is staying at a local motel until the trial.”
Pete nodded. “My life would have been different if he’d told the truth five years ago. But maybe it’s better I left the Corps and went to college. Did you know they moved me to isolation last week?”
“I figured they might. Do you want me to ask the judge to move you back upstairs with the other prisoners?”
Pete hesitated. “I’m not sure. There is an insane man in the cell next to me. He yells and screams several hours a day.”
“What’s his name?”
“Cal Musgrave.”
“Oh yeah. He’s been causing trouble around town for years.”
“But I’m able to tune him out most of the time. When I went to the isolation cell, I decided to live as if I was in a prisoner-of-war camp and let the old Marine Corps training kick in. You know, develop a daily routine, discipline my time, keep mentally focused. Part of that has been reading the Bible every day, and I’m doing better now than before.”
“Okay.”
“I’ve even gone to the past two church services and talked with Mr. Gallegly.”
“Charles Gallegly has been coming to the jail for years.”
“He’s a kind man,” Pete said. “Anyway, I was a mess last week. All we’d had was bad news on top of bad news, but Mr. Gallegly helped me have a little hope.”
“That’s good.”
Pete scratched his ear. “Do you ever read the Bible?”
A month earlier Mac would have given a glib, “Yes.” But after being around David Moreland, he knew there were different ways to read the Scriptures than flipping through a few pages once or twice a year. “I go to church occasionally, but to be honest, I’m learning myself.”
“There’s a verse I’ve been wondering about—it’s Romans 8:28. I memorized it.”
“What does it say?”
Pete looked straight into Mac’s eyes. “ ‘And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose.’”
“God works all things for the good?” Mac asked.
“‘For those who love him and have been called according to his purpose.’”
Mac mentally ran a condensed replay of the last ten years of his life—his wife, his sons, his pain. Finally, he said, “I can’t see it.”
“It makes sense in the deal with the Marines,” Pete responded. “I’m glad I went on to college. But this”—he gestured to the walls surrounding them. “I want to believe, but I can’t.”
“I can’t help on that one,” Mac said. “There’s too much suffering in the world for me to make any sense out of it. But let me tell you one thing I have learned recently while sitting in a church service. Was your mother a good cook?”
“Yeah. She made the best squash casserole.”
Thirty minutes later, Mac walked out of the jail, shaking his head in amazement. He’d done a lot in his career, but he’d never talked to a client about religion, much less the idea that he could taste God.
Mac McClain was the topic of preliminary conversation for the Tuesday morning meeting of the Mable Ray Circle. Celeste told about her brief encounter with Mac as they walked out of the sanctuary and read the old prayer journal about Laura’s prayer, spoken so many years before and now answered so specifically in the present. Several women wi
ped away tears.
“Amazing,” Kelli said. “I wasn’t even in first grade when Mrs. McClain prayed for her husband.”
“This is what it’s all about,” Naomi said, wiping her eye with a tissue. “Praying a matter through to its fulfillment.”
The women grew quiet and waited.
In a few minutes, Kathy Howell began, “Father, thank you for your love and faithfulness to your children. Help us in this time of prayer to enter into the power of agreement with one another and with you for Mac McClain.”
Then, one by one they joined in. Some quietly prayed a verse or two of Scripture. Others proclaimed with confidence the manifestation of God’s will over Mac’s life. Celeste saw a simple vision of Mac on a ladder and prayed that he would have the courage to climb higher. For an hour they continued in alternating periods of silence and spoken words, knowing from experience that the unity of the Spirit would weave a tapestry of prayer through their collective sensitivity to the Lord that more completely revealed the will of God than the perspective of a single individual. The number of words spoken in prayer was not their measure of success. They realized that a simple cry for help at the right time and place attracted the attention of the only One whose assistance was worth seeking.
“Mac also asked us to pray for the Angela Hightower murder case,” Celeste said. “Let’s ask the Lord for something on behalf of the Hightower family.”
Another period of silence followed. Then Naomi prayed in her slightly tremulous voice, “Father, we ask you to bring the members of the Hightower family together for healing during this time of tragedy and sorrow. Open their eyes. Where there has been rejection, bring acceptance. Where there has been isolation, bring relationship. Where there have been,” she paused, “hidden deeds of darkness, bring the revelation of your light . . .”
27
Man looks at the outward appearance, but the Lord looks at the heart.
1 samuel 16:7 (niv)
Vicki had been working for several days on the “list of sixty-six,” as they called the midnight purple Lincoln owners. She eliminated one-third of the purchasers as retired couples who posed no threat to anyone except perhaps a stockbroker who gave them bad advice on commodity futures. However, information about two-thirds of the individuals was too sketchy to form an opinion about their potential for criminal activity. She and David met with Mac in the library.
“What do you want me to do?” she asked.
“Do the best you can,” Mac said. “We don’t have the time or resources to investigate forty people in less than a week, but we can go as far down the list as possible. Maybe something will turn up that connects a person on the list to the Lincoln that struck Mr. McFarland’s truck.”
Vicki turned to go.
“One other thing,” Mac said. “Do you have the number of the Peachtree Lab? I have a final piece of work for them to do.”
“I’ll try to get them on the phone.”
After Vicki left, Mac turned to David. “I’ve been working on my direct and cross-examination of every potential witness. I want you to do the same thing. Prepare an outline of information you think is important, and I’ll supplement it from my point of view and frame the exact language of critical questions.”
“Yes, sir. Will I question any witnesses?”
“Do you want to?”
David thought about the responsibility. “I’m not sure.”
“We’ll work up the whole case before delegating any responsibility.”
“Okay.”
Vicki buzzed the phone in the library. “Dr. Gary Ogden from the lab in Atlanta is on line three.”
“Dr. Ogden, do you have enough of Thomason’s blood to run another test?”
“What type of test?”
“For the presence of gamma-hydroxybutryate, GHB. I need to know as soon as possible.”
“Yes, I can do it. I’m familiar with the drug and its effects,” the chemist responded.
“How soon?” Mac asked.
“I’ll go into the lab myself and call you before five o’clock.”
Several hours later, Mindy buzzed Mac. “Dr. Odgen on line two.”
Mac’s heart sped up an extra couple of beats. He desperately needed a physical explanation for Pete’s claim of memory loss. His client’s “I don’t remembers” and “I don’t knows” were as convincing as the excuses offered by war criminals at Nuremberg.
“What did you find?” he asked.
“GHB was present at a significant level—over five hundred milligrams.”
“What effect would that have on a two-hundred-pound male?”
“In combination with the other drugs in his system, he could have gone to the moon and not remembered it.”
Thank you, Anna Wilkes, Ph.D., Mac thought as he dialed David’s number to give him the news.
Mac and David met at the jail to tell Pete the news. He listened as Mac explained how they would present the evidence then asked the obvious question, “But why was GHB in my bloodstream in the first place?”
Mac stopped. “All I’d thought about since the call from the lab was proving your mental condition on the night of Angela’s death. I don’t have any idea how the drug got in your system.”
“That’s what I thought,” Pete said. “I don’t remember and you don’t know.”
Back at the office, Mac left a message for Anna Wilkes.
She called close to 5:00 P.M. Mindy buzzed Mac’s office. “Dr. Wilkes on line two. We had a nice chat.”
“You what?” Mac asked, but Mindy had already disconnected.
He punched the phone button. “Hey. I’ve talked with the lab in Atlanta. Pete’s tested positive for GHB.”
“I’m surprised.”
“Surprised?” Mac asked. “You suggested the test.”
“I didn’t know I would be right. It was a guess.”
“Guess or not. You hit the jackpot. It answers some questions but raises others.”
“It’s like starting at the end and working your way backward.”
“Exactly.”
“How is the overall trial preparation going?” Anna asked.
“I’m in good shape.” Mac paused. “My last chance to breathe freely will be Saturday night, and I’d like to spend it at a nice restaurant in Chattanooga. Any suggestions?”
“Are you looking for gourmet chicken livers?”
Mac laughed. “No, I was thinking more about steak or prime rib.”
“Then it’s Kincaid’s on the river. They have good steaks and great grilled salmon.”
“Would you like to join me?” Mac asked.
“Are you sure that’s wise?”
“What do you mean?”
“So close to the trial. Fraternizing with your expert witness.”
Mac realized he was being teased. “Maybe you’re right.”
“Maybe I’m not,” Anna shot back. “You’ve made my mouth water thinking about the salmon. What time?”
“Seven?”
“That’s good.”
Anna hung up the phone. Ever since her conversation with Celeste Jamison outside the courthouse, she’d kept Mac at the forefront of her thoughts and prayers. But in praying for his needs, she’d found herself caring more and more about him in a different light. As a man.
By late Friday afternoon, Mac and David were ready for a break. They’d sent out subpoenas, arranged airplane flights, prepared motions, written hundreds of questions, pored over the jury list, and made sure they had enough extra sheets of blank paper in their trial notebooks for any surprises along the way. Mac had spent Thursday evening with Harry O’Ryan, and he hoped the now-sober ex-Marine’s testimony would soften the anticipated blow from Buster Monroe.
Mac brought the mugs and drinks into the library. For a snack he’d found a jar of fresh peanuts in the break room.
“I missed our little ritual last week,” David said. “I told my dad about it.”
“Did he think I was corrupting you?”
&nb
sp; “No, he’d like to meet you.”
“I’d like that, too.” Mac poured his beer and handed David a spring water. “It’s a nice rite of passage into the weekend. Although this weekend will be a bit more stressful than normal.”
“Are you working all day tomorrow?” David asked.
“Yes. But I have dinner plans.”
“Me, too.” David took a drink of water. “Is there a decent Chinese restaurant in town?”
“The Canton District on Hamilton Street is good. Do you have a date?”
David nodded toward the reception area. “Mindy.”
“You’re kidding.” Mac set down his mug. “I mean, is she your type?”
“What is my type?” David smiled.
“Well, I guess, uh—”
“Someone dressed in a long brown skirt with thick glasses and an IQ over 150?”
Mac held up his hand. “Okay, so I’m wrong. But Mindy?”
“You hired her. Surely you know more about her intelligence and personality than I do.”
Mac thought a minute. “Actually, I don’t know much at all. She’s a hard worker, and as long as she answered the phone and did the filing, I didn’t try to find out anything else.”
“That’s your loss.”
They sat quietly for a few minutes, drinking and munching peanuts.
Mac’s curiosity about Mindy rose to the surface. “What is she like?” he asked.
“She really understands people,” David said. “Including you.”
“What does she say about me?”
“That you’re a hard worker.”
“That’s all?”
“No, the rest is privileged.”
“Oh.”
David smiled. “She thinks you’re a neat guy—for someone your age.”
The Trial Page 22
