The Trial

by Robert Whitlow

  When Alex regained full consciousness, he opened his eyes and saw Sarah and Spencer sitting on opposite sides of his bed. For several seconds, he wasn’t sure if he was hallucinating or awake.

  “Sarah,” he said hoarsely.

  She quickly moved her chair near his head. “Do you want a sip of water?” she asked.

  “I’ll get it.” Spencer handed a glass and straw to Sarah, who held it for Alex to take a drink. “How are you, Alex?” Spencer asked.

  “I’ve been better. What are you doing here?”

  “I want him here,” Sarah said. “A lot has happened since you were attacked.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Sarah told him what they knew about the attack, his medical condition, and finished with the call from Joe Whetstone about her own safety. Alex grimaced in pain several times, but when she asked if he wanted her to call a nurse, he said, “No, go on.”

  She finished and Alex asked, “Do you have someone protecting you?”

  “Yes. Several.”

  “But Thomason is in jail now.” Alex shut his eyes and tried to think. “Who is working with him and why?”

  Sarah put her hand on Alex’s shoulder. “Alex, there is something I need to tell you about Peter Thomason.”

  When she finished, Alex asked weakly, “Why would he want to give me one of his kidneys?”

  “I wish I could do it,” Spencer said quietly.

  “You do?” Alex looked over at his younger brother.

  Spencer repeated his earlier plea for forgiveness. Alex listened with his eyes shut until Spencer finished. He opened his eyes and met his brother’s gaze. “I’m sorry, too. I accused you without hearing you out.”

  Sarah pulled her chair closer to the bed. “Alex, are you going to accept the kidney?” she asked. “I need to tell the doctors as soon as possible.”

  Alex looked in her eyes. “What do you think?”

  Sarah stroked his cheek. “I’ve been thinking about it while we waited for you to wake up. I want you well.”

  Alex grimaced in pain. “I don’t know if I can talk to the boy.”

  “If you don’t want to see him, I’m sure it can be arranged.”

  “Okay. Tell them yes.”

  “I’m sorry I made you cry earlier,” Spencer added.

  “Cry?” Alex asked, looking toward Sarah. “Did I cry?”

  “No,” Sarah said.

  “Dr. Newburn told me,” Spencer said. “I guess he was mistaken.”

  Inside the apartment the cell phone rang. Mike answered.

  “Well?” Dr. Newburn asked impatiently.

  “Show us the money and we’ll do it.”

  “Don’t be cute.”

  “It’s going to be tougher than we thought. She hired some bodyguards. Somebody is getting very suspicious.”

  “When will you finish the job?” Newburn asked. “I’m in a hurry to get this over with.”

  “Within twenty-four hours of receiving the $100,000. I have a foolproof plan.”

  “I said $55,000.”

  “Doc, I don’t care what you said. We’re not budging for less than $100,000.”

  “No, $25,000 down and the balance when it’s finished.”

  Mike looked at Bart and held up five fingers. His brother nodded. “Listen,” Mike said, “We’ll do it for $50,000 down and the balance within twelve hours of the time her heart stops beating.”

  Newburn didn’t respond for several seconds. “You’ve got a good plan?”

  “Airtight.”

  “All right, all right,” the psychiatrist conceded. “You’ve got it.”

  “Will I read about number two’s death in the paper tomorrow?” Mike asked.

  “Uh, no. I hit a snag.”

  “It’s harder than it looks, isn’t it?”

  “Just leave the car door unlocked.”

  “Usual signal?”

  “Yes.”

  The phone went dead.

  Mike put the phone down on the kitchen counter.

  “I don’t know about this,” Bart said.

  “Don’t worry. This deal has gotten too hot, and we’re not going to stick our necks into a noose. As soon as we have the $50,000, we’re leaving town and not looking back. How does Vegas sound?”

  Bart rubbed a pair of imaginary dice between his hands. “Like heaven.”

  Ray had saved an egg roll from supper for a midnight snack and was dipping it in duck sauce at 12:32 A.M. Harry seemed able to fall asleep in any location, circumstance, or position. The young man’s head was leaned against the window of the truck with his mouth halfway open. A car glided into the parking lot, and Ray slid down a few inches in his seat.

  It was a black Mercedes. The driver turned off the headlamps, drove forward in the amber glow of the car’s parking lights, and stopped behind the white Nissan. The trunk lid popped open and a short, overweight figure got out, took two briefcases from the trunk, and put them into the backseat of the Nissan. He quietly shut the door of the Nissan and drove away.

  Ray shook Harry’s shoulder. “Wake up.”

  “Uh. Why?”

  “Wake up.”

  “Okay, okay.”

  Ray told him what had happened. “The lights in the apartment have been off for about thirty minutes. I’d like to see what’s in those briefcases.”

  Shaking himself fully awake, Harry said, “I can tell you.”

  “What?”

  “Trouble. It’s none of our business. Mac told us to be careful, and I remember you agreeing with him. We can watch and follow, but I don’t want to meet those two guys.”

  Ray opened his door.

  “Did you hear what I said?” Harry asked.

  “Yes, so don’t repeat it. I’ll be back in a second.”

  Ray moved cautiously across the parking lot and crouched beside the rear of the Nissan. He cracked open the back door of the vehicle, causing the dome light to switch on.

  Watching from the front window of the darkened apartment, Bart hissed, “Mike, someone is snooping around our truck. Go around back while I watch from here.”

  There was a sliding glass door in the master bedroom. Grabbing a pistol and a blackjack, Mike unlocked the door, jogged around the building, and hid behind a bush about fifteen feet from the Nissan.

  Ray had put one of the briefcases on the asphalt parking lot and was trying to pry it open with his pocketknife. Concentrating on the briefcase, he didn’t hear Mike Conan creep up behind him. Mike raised his hand and quickly brought the blackjack down on Ray’s head at the base of his skull.

  Ray grunted and collapsed on the pavement. Bart came bolting out the door, and the two men dragged Ray’s unconscious form into the apartment.

  “Get the money while I tie this guy up,” Mike said.

  “Let’s waste him.”

  “Just get the money. We don’t need the cleaning lady finding a dead body after we’re gone. Let me think a minute.”

  Bart returned with the briefcases and put them on the kitchen table.

  Mike was rifling through Ray’s wallet flipping cards onto the glass topped table.

  “Ray Morrison. He’s from Dennison Springs.”

  “What’s he doing here?”

  Mike held up one of Ray’s cards. “He’s a private detective. Get some rope and duct tape.”

  Ray was bound hand and foot with rope, and long pieces of duct tape were plastered over his eyes and mouth. As they dragged him into a corner of the living room, he groaned.

  “He’ll come around in a few minutes. We need to think fast. This is a bad scene,” Mike said.

  “We don’t have a choice,” Bart said quickly. “We have to kill him and dump him somewhere.”

  Mike swore. “Don’t be stupid. What if someone already knows he’s here?”

  “The apartment is in the doc’s name. No one can trace us.”

  The phone rang. Mike and Bart looked at one another.

  “Answer it,” Bart said.

  “Did yo
u get your groceries?” Dr. Newburn asked.

  “Yeah, but there was an extra piece of bacon.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “A private detective named Ray Morrison from Dennison Springs is wrapped up in the corner of our living room. We caught him snooping around our vehicle before we could make the pickup.”

  “Dennison Springs! Did he see me leave the money?”

  “Maybe, maybe not. I knocked him out before we could chat, and we don’t plan on interviewing him. My plan is to put a bullet through his head and dump him on your doorstep.”

  “Hold on. I’ll call back in five minutes.”

  “Make that three minutes.”

  -Harry saw Ray fall to the pavement and watched the two men drag his body into the apartment. Reaching under the front seat of the truck, he took out a small black case. Inside was a Smith and Wesson .38 revolver. Holding the gun, he carefully opened the truck’s door, ran across the parking lot, and crept behind the apartment building. Only one apartment showed signs of life, and he hoped Ray Morrison was somewhere inside it—alive.

  The sliding glass door was still ajar, and Harry quietly opened it enough to squeeze through into the bedroom. His right hand was shaking, and he could hear voices in the next room. He eased along the wall until he was beside the door. Gripping the pistol with both hands to hold it still, he heard Mike’s statement about putting a bullet through Ray’s head and knew he had only one option.

  Spinning around the corner of the door, he aimed the pistol squarely at Mike’s chest and pulled the trigger. The gun clicked. Nothing happened. He had forgotten to make sure it was loaded. Bart and Mike lunged across the room. Harry frantically pulled the trigger again, and the gun roared as Mike hit his right arm. The shot missed Mike but passed through Bart’s low back, paralyzing his legs and sending a lightning bolt of pain through his body.

  Unaware that his brother was hit, Mike knocked Harry to the floor in the bedroom. The gun went skidding under the edge of the bed. The two men rolled over and over, exchanging blows with Harry ending up on top. The larger man threw Harry off and slammed his face into the wall. Both men staggered to their feet and Mike yelled, “Bart, get him!”

  Harry spun around just as Mike punched him in the stomach. A second blow missed and Harry grabbed Mike’s arm, pulling him down so he could slam his knee into the side of Mike’s head. At that point the superiority of Marine Corps hand-to-hand combat training over the undisciplined ways of a street brawler took over. Harry chopped the back of Mike’s head just below the skull and followed him to the floor where he pinned him, face to the floor with his arm behind his back. Blood from a cut on Harry’s face dripped onto the back of Mike’s head.

  Mike wailed, “Bart! Where are you?”

  Harry anxiously craned his neck to see in the next room. He could see Bart pulling himself forward across the carpet with his hands and arms toward the bedroom.

  “I can’t move my legs!” Bart yelled.

  The phone rang. One, two, three, four, five, six rings.

  Dr. Newburn hung up the phone that rested on the antique cherry secretary in his den and walked upstairs to his bedroom.

  Mike swore at Harry. “You’re going to pay for this.”

  Harry didn’t answer. Mike continued struggling but was unable to shake Harry’s hold. Breathing heavily, Bart moved steadily toward the door. Harry leaned over and saw the pistol under the edge of the bed.

  Harry applied pressure to Mike’s carotid artery, cutting off the blood supply to the brain. Bart made it through the bedroom door, inching closer to the pistol. Mike went limp, and Harry applied pressure to the artery for a few more seconds, then jumped up and staggered unsteadily on his feet. He dived over the corner of the bed and reached for the gun, but he was too late. Bart had the pistol in his hand. He pointed it at Harry’s head and pulled the trigger.

  The bullet blew away the top third of Harry’s right ear, continued through the ceiling and destroyed the Kramers’ new television in the apartment upstairs. Fortunately, Mr. and Mrs. Kramer were out of town.

  Blood from Harry’s wound squirted from the side of his head as he rolled away from the impact and noise of the shot. When Bart tried to turn his body toward Harry to take another shot, pain knifed through his back and he twisted to the side. Harry reached over the side of the bed, grabbed Bart’s wrist and they fought for control of the weapon. In the struggle, Harry fell off the bed and landed on top of Bart, who cursed and tried to gouge Harry in the eye. Harry jerked back his head and slowly twisted Bart’s wrist until he released his grip on the gun. It fell out of his hand and onto the floor.

  Gasping for breath, Harry put his hand to his head and came away with a handful of blood from the gushing wound. Pushing the pistol hard against Bart’s forehead with his bloody hand, he said, “If you move, you’re dead.”

  Eyes wide, Bart didn’t twitch.

  Leaving a trail of red, Harry went into the living room and saw Ray’s motionless form in the corner. Grabbing the cell phone, he resumed his position on Mike’s back and dialed 911.

  A woman answered, “Emergency 911, how may I help you this evening?”

  “I’m on a cell phone,” he gasped. “4873B Palomino Apartments. Gunshot wounds. Multiple ambulances and police needed.”

  47

  How pleasant it is for brethren to dwell in unity.

  PSALM 133:1 (KJV)

  Mac drove Peggy Morrison to Atlanta, and they rushed together into Ray’s hospital room at 4:00 A.M. The big detective was sleeping with his mouth open, snoring rhythmically. Peggy touched his hand.

  “Ray?” she said, her voice quivering.

  “Huh?” Ray opened his eyes and tried to move his head. “Ouch. Hey, baby.”

  “How are you?” she asked.

  “I have a headache, but I’ll be fine.”

  Peggy burst into tears in a release of tension and worry.

  “Aw. I’m sorry,” Ray said.

  “No, it’s that you’re okay.”

  “Yeah. I’ll be sore for a few days, but I should be chopping wood in a couple of weeks. Have you seen Harry? He’s a mess.”

  “The police said he was shot,” Mac said. “How bad is it?”

  “He lost part of his right ear and will need some cosmetic surgery. We were lying next to each other in the hallway of the ER, and he put in a request for the same doctor who did the work on Evander Holyfield’s ear.” Ray managed a weak smile.

  “Where is he now?” Mac asked.

  “Down the hall. I’m not sure which room it is, but the nurses can tell you.”

  Ray held out his hand and Peggy grasped it. “Harry saved my life. It was not a good situation.”

  “I’ll leave you two alone and see if he’s awake,” Mac said.

  Harry’s head was swathed in bandages. He opened his eyes when Mac walked in.

  “Ray says you’re a hero.”

  “A Marine never leaves a buddy on the field.”

  “What are the damages?”

  Harry touched the bandages covering the right side of his head. “Just a piece of my ear, and I hear a constant ringing sound that the doctors say might go away.”

  “Do you feel like telling me what happened?”

  “Yeah, the police just left. I think they want to talk with you, too.

  The detective’s card is on the cart at the foot of the bed.”

  Mac slipped the card into his pocket.

  Harry told Mac the events of the previous day and night.

  “Do the police know our suspicions about Spencer Hightower?” Mac asked.

  “Yes, but guess who owned the car that we saw stop in front of the apartment.”

  “It wasn’t Spencer?”

  “Nope. The psychiatrist. Dr. Newburn.”

  “Newburn! Why him? Was he working for Spencer, too?”

  “Possibly. The detective told me the apartment was in Newburn’s name, too.”

  Mac called the precinct from Harry’s room. Thi
rty-five minutes later, he was sitting in Detective Lyle’s office talking to a slender, brown-haired man who looked more like an associate in a law firm than a third-shift detective with the Atlanta Police Department.

  “We’re going to bring Spencer Hightower and Dr. Newburn in for questioning. Tell me more about the murder case.”

  When Mac finished, Detective Lyle said, “I’m going to contact the sheriff ’s department in Echota County. The Conan brothers should be considered suspects in Angela Hightower’s murder.”

  “Have they given any statements?”

  “I can’t discuss that, but the scope of our investigation is expanding.”

  “I have a motion for new trial pending.”

  “Contact me in a few days, and I’ll give you an update.”

  Ray and Harry were sound asleep when Mac returned to the hospital. Peggy was keeping vigil by Ray’s bed.

  “Are you going back home?” she asked. It took two and a half hours to drive from Atlanta to Dennison Springs.

  Mac checked his watch. It was almost 6:00 A.M. “If I leave, you won’t have any way to get around.”

  “Do you think I’m going anywhere?” Peggy smiled.

  “Okay.” Mac nodded. “I’ll call later.”

  At 6:36 A.M. two detectives and four uniformed officers from the Atlanta Police Department were in position at Dr. Louis Newburn’s residence, a brick home with a beautifully manicured lawn and a cluster of azalea bushes that exploded with color every spring. After ringing the doorbell, knocking, and waiting, they broke through the front door and fanned out quickly through the house. No one was home.

  Driving north away from the metropolitan Atlanta area, Mac analyzed the events of the past twenty-four hours. The Conan brothers, Louis Newburn, Spencer Hightower, all seemed to have their place in the equation. But regardless of the actual participants in the crime, a tall, rangy young man sitting in an isolation cell at the Echota county jail no longer belonged under judgment for murder. The realization of Pete’s innocence swept over Mac and he shouted, “Yes!”

  Arriving home, he shaved, showered, and went into the office. Everyone, including David, was waiting for him.

  “Good morning, all,” he said when he saw the group in the reception area and began walking toward his office.