If the body had been moved, I doubted that Esther could have done so. She wasn’t a big woman and she was sixty-two years old, a little long in the tooth for lifting and transporting dead people. I was sure that the forensics people who had examined the scene would have a better idea of whether Lathom had been killed at Paddock Square or somewhere else.
There was a timeline question, too. The newspaper piece J.D. had found online told us that the body was discovered at dawn. That wasn’t very precise. The medical examiner could come up with a pretty good estimate of when the woman had been killed. If I knew that she hadn’t been killed where she was found, and knew the approximate time of death, I would have some parameters to start with. I didn’t expect the investigators to find the place where she had been killed, if it wasn’t in fact in Paddock Square, but at least if it was determined that she hadn’t died where she was found, I could begin to fashion an argument against the idea of my client killing the victim and then transporting her body to the square.
There was no indication of who found the body. That would be in the police reports, which would come to me in due course through the discovery process. I didn’t want to wait, though. I needed to get ahead of the police on this if possible.
I was standing idly, letting the thoughts run through my brain. The trial lawyer starts plotting his strategy at the moment he’s retained on a case. At least the good ones do. I don’t think there’s a waking moment between the time he’s retained and the time the jury returns a verdict that, at least on some level, the case isn’t percolating through his head. When he’s asleep, the dreams come, always about the cases, always whispering that the lawyer hasn’t done all he could for his client. Or her client, I should add. There are many top-notch women trial lawyers and they are plagued by the same self-doubts as we macho men. It’s an occupational failing that affects anyone egotistical enough to take on the rigors of the courtroom and the possibility of losing an innocent client to the not-so-gentle embrace of what we euphemistically call the Department of Corrections.
Most lawyers have a lot more than one case going at a time, so the process is complex and convoluted. I only had one case, Esther’s, but I knew in my gut that I would suffer the same doubts and uncertainty that had driven me to drink in my former life. I wouldn’t sleep well until the jury came back with a verdict. If it was guilty, I’d start worrying about the appeal. No wonder lawyers with a heavy caseload drink too much. The stress never ends. One case after another, too many trials, too many losses, too many clients who are going to spend much of the rest of their lives in prison.
And if a lawyer tells you he’s never lost a trial, ask him how many he’s tried. Those of us who, like Roman gladiators, regularly go into the arena that is the courtroom have lost cases. Some of those losses sting more than others, but it has been my experience that while the memories of the wins fade, the lawyer never forgets the losses.
Why do we do it? It becomes a way of life, and God help us, we love the fight, the intellectual battles, the courtroom jousting. We lie to ourselves that our families understand, that the drinking is just a little relaxation after a hard day at work. And then one day, you wake up and find that the woman you loved has left you and filed for divorce. The life you worked so hard to create for yourself and for her, the money, the win-loss record, the reputation you built one case at a time, was merely a chimera. That’s when you chuck it all, move to an island, and become a beach bum. Or at least that’s what I did.
I saw a young man picking up trash in the bleachers. He wore a shirt that identified him as an employee of The Villages. I walked over and introduced myself. “Do you work here in Paddock Square every day?”
“Not every day. I alternate with another guy, so I’m usually here two out of three days. I handle all three of the outdoor theaters.”
“Do you know about the body that was found here yesterday morning?”
“Yes, sir. I found her.”
“You were working that early?”
“Yes, sir. I’m finishing up my day now, but yesterday I started here and then went on to the other places. Some days, like today, I do it differently.”
“What time did you find the body?”
“Why are you so interested in this?”
“I’m a lawyer and I’m representing the lady who has been charged with killing the woman you found.”
“Oh. Are you sure it’s okay for me to talk to you?”
“Yes. You’ll be a witness in the trial, so at some point I’ll be taking your deposition.”
“If you’re sure. It must have been a little after seven when I arrived. I saw her when I first got here. The sun was just coming up. I start every morning as soon as it’s light enough to see what I’m picking up.”
“You have a lot to pick up?”
“Nah. These old people are pretty good about picking up after themselves. I’m usually finished by about ten, but we had a departmental employee meeting this morning, so I’m running late.”
“When you found the body, did you see much blood?”
“No. She was lying facedown, and I could see a gunshot wound in her upper back. There was some blood on her clothes around what looked to be the entrance. I partially turned her but couldn’t find an exit wound. She was in full rigor, and given the temperature, I’d guess she’d been dead for maybe ten to twelve hours.”
“That sounds pretty professional. How do you know about entrance wounds as opposed to exit wounds and rigor mortis?”
“My other job is a paramedic with The Villages fire department. Before that, I was an Army medic. I’ve seen a lot of gunshot wounds and dead bodies.”
“I was infantry,” I said. “There was no soldier we respected more than the medics.”
“I was assigned to an infantry platoon in Iraq.”
“Welcome home, Doc,” I said.
“You, too, sir. How can I help you?”
That was it. An instant bond formed between two warriors, a bond that lasts a lifetime and encompasses anyone who ever wore the uniform. It’s almost mystical, a shared past even with those who never saw combat, a time when you had almost no control over your own life. You went where your superiors sent you, you did what they told you to do, you killed enemy soldiers when you were ordered to, you put your life on the line at the direction of people you never knew or even saw.
You often lived in circumstances that the Supreme Court has determined to be cruel and unusual punishment when applied to convicted felons serving time in prisons. And when you finished your tour of duty, you went home, to America, the States, the land of the big PX, and you put your uniform away, and resumed life as a civilian.
But the military never left you. You carried it within, because you knew you weren’t the same person who had first walked onto the military reservation and started the process of learning to be a soldier, a Marine, an airman, a sailor, or a Coastie. You retained the pride, the discipline, the sense of having served a cause worthy of the years you put in. And when one veteran identifies himself or herself to another, regardless of service or rank, the bond is recognized, perhaps because only the veteran can understand the military life.
No matter how hard one tries to explain that lifestyle to the nonvet, it will fall on ears that cannot fully comprehend the pride that earning the right to wear the uniform engenders. And for all the years left in the vet’s life after he takes off the uniform for the last time, that enduring tie binds him to every other person who ever served.
And when that life is over, many of them will be buried in a military cemetery among their buddies who also served. And so it was on that sunny day in Paddock Square between two former soldiers separated by time and circumstances.
“Do you think she was killed here or somewhere else?” I asked.
“Hard to tell. The wound looks like it came from a small-caliber slug. I turned her over to make sure there wasn’t anything I could do for her and I didn’t see an exit wound. There might not have been
much blood to begin with.”
“What’s your name?”
“Kevin Cook.”
“I’m Matt Royal. Did you notice anything out of the ordinary? Like disheveled or missing clothing, anything like that.”
“No, sir.”
“Did you see any bruising or anything that might indicate she’d put up a fight?”
Kevin stood quietly for a moment, thinking. “I didn’t notice anything, but since she was shot in the back, she may not have realized she was in danger.”
“Can you tell me exactly where in her back you found the entrance wound?”
“Pretty much in the middle, between the shoulder blades. If I had to guess, I’d say that the bullet likely hit her spinal cord. She was probably dead before she hit the ground.”
“Any bruising on her face?”
“Not that I saw. Of course, I wasn’t looking for anything like that, so it might have been there, and I didn’t see it.”
“If she was shot in the back and killed instantly, wouldn’t you expect her to fall forward and be unable to catch herself?”
“I would,” Kevin said, “and if she’d fallen onto the concrete face-first, I’d expect her to have some cuts or bruising.”
“So, it’d be a pretty safe guess that she was probably killed somewhere else and dumped here.”
“I think you’re right, Mr. Royal.”
“Can you show me exactly where you found the body?”
“Sure.” He led me to a spot near the stage that was built to look like a frontier cabin. To the right of the stage, there was a life-sized bronze statue of a cowboy sitting on a fence. “That’s Mr. Morse who was one of the founders of The Villages,” he said, pointing to the statue. “The body was right about here.”
He was pointing to a spot a few feet in front of the statue. I noticed a driveway of sorts that ran from a curb cut on the street corner into the concrete area that became a dance floor during the evening entertainment. If you stood on that corner you would look across Brownwood Boulevard to the World of Beer restaurant and across the intersecting street, West Torch Lake Drive, to the City Fire restaurant.
“Is this a driveway?” I asked. I was pointing to a corridor paved in brick and concrete that lay between two parallel fences and ended in a curb cut at the corner of the square.
“I don’t know. There’re curb cuts on all four corners of the Paddock. I don’t really know what they’re used for. Maybe the performers bring their equipment in that way.”
“Thanks, Kevin. You’ve been very helpful. Do you work out of the same fire station all the time?”
“I’m usually at Station Forty-Five, right across from the Eisenhower Recreation Center on Buena Vista. We’ve got six other stations and sometimes I might be at one of the others. I’m on duty twenty-four hours and then I’m off for forty-eight hours. It’ll be a hit or miss proposition as to where you’ll find me.”
“Can I get your address and phone number?”
“Not a problem.” I handed him a ballpoint pen and a sheet of paper from the little pad I kept in my pocket. He scrawled the information on the paper and gave it back to me. We shook hands, and I walked across the street to the World of Beer restaurant.
The place was virtually empty. I took a stool at the bar and ordered a Diet Coke. The bartender was an attractive brunette whom I judged to be in her late twenties or early thirties. Her slender body reflected what must have been a rigorous workout schedule and her big smile lit up the room. She brought me a glass of Diet Coke, smiled, and asked how my day was going. “Don’t see a lot of suits around here,” she said. “Almost everybody wears cargo shorts.”
“Alas,” I said. “I’m a workingman. What can I say?”
“What do you do?”
“I’m a lawyer.”
She grinned. “I might have guessed. My name is Amber Marris.”
“I’m Matt Royal.”
“What brings you to this sleepy town, Matt?”
“I’m representing the lady who is accused of killing the woman they found across the street yesterday.”
“You mean Esther Higgins?”
“I do. You know her?”
“Yes. She comes in fairly regularly. Usually with a gaggle of women who play golf several times a week.”
“I didn’t know Esther was a golfer,” I said.
“I don’t think she is. Her friends are her neighbors, and she usually joins them for lunch or happy hour.”
“I don’t guess you work nights.”
“Actually, I do. I’ll be working tonight. I just came in.”
“What about Wednesday night?”
“I was here. Why?”
“I understand the body was probably left in Paddock Square late that night or early Thursday morning.” I didn’t know that, but it was a pretty good guess. “Did you see anything suspicious that evening?” This was a shot in the dark, but sometimes you get a hit.
“No. Nothing out of the ordinary. There’s usually a good crowd of people in the square on warm nights because of the music. But that stops at nine o’clock so we get a lot of the crowd in here. This week has been bigger than usual on account of Rocky and the Rollers playing in Paddock Square. They always draw a big crowd.”
“What time did you get off?”
“We close at midnight, but we have people drinking their last drinks, and the staff stays until we get things cleaned up. I probably left between one and one thirty, maybe a little after.”
“Did you go by Paddock Square on your way home?”
“No. I park in the lot behind the restaurant, so I would have gone out the back door. Wait a minute. I almost got hit by a van as I was turning onto Brownwood Boulevard.”
“Tell me about that.”
“I left the parking lot and turned right onto West Torch Lake Avenue and was making an almost immediate left onto Brownwood Boulevard. This van came out of nowhere and cut right in front of me. I had to slam on my brakes to miss him.”
“I want you to think very carefully about the answer to my next question. Sometimes if you take a minute to empty your brain, you can remember things with a bit more clarity. Okay?”
“Shoot.”
“Did you see where the van came from?” I could have asked if it came out of the square on the curb cut nearest where the body was found, but that’s what we lawyers call a leading question. It tends to put ideas in the head of the person answering the question.
She stood quietly for a long moment, chewing gently on her lower lip. I could almost hear the gears grinding. “He came out of Paddock Square,” she said, quietly. “I remember seeing him coming off that curb cut. I thought he’d stop, so I continued my turn, but he floored it and almost ran over me.”
“Which way did he go?”
“Straight out Brownwood Boulevard. He’d have a straight shot to Buena Vista Boulevard and a few blocks to Highway 44. It’s the quickest way out of town.”
“Do you have any idea who the driver was?”
“No. I didn’t even get a glimpse of him. The van was a white Dodge Promaster City van.”
“You seem pretty sure about that.”
“My husband is an electrician. He has his own business and he’s thinking about buying a new work vehicle. I went with him last weekend to look at one just like the one that madman was driving Wednesday night. Or Thursday morning, I guess.”
“I don’t suppose you got a license plate number.”
“No. Sorry. I assumed he was part of the Rocky and the Rollers crew and was just picking up equipment.”
“Can you narrow down the time any better than the one o’clock period?”
“I can. Hold on.” She pulled her phone out of her pocket and scrolled down a list. “Here it is. I called my husband to let him know I was on my way home. He wants me to do that so that he knows I’m safe. I called him from the parking lot at exactly one forty-two.”
“Your guess was pretty good.”
“Pretty close. Do you
think the people in that van had something to do with the murder?”
“Maybe. That van may be what the killer or killers used to transport the body. It’s a good start to finding out what is going on here. Have any law enforcement officers talked to you?”
“No. Should I call somebody about what I saw?”
A man in his seventies, sporting a deep tan and wearing a golf shirt and cargo shorts, came in and sat at the other end of the bar. The bartender called out, “The usual, Frank?”
“That’ll do, Amber. Make it a cold one.”
“Be right back,” Amber said to me. I watched her draw a draft out of a tap with the logo of a local craft beer and deliver it to Frank. She returned.
“I can’t tell you whether you should call the law with what you know,” I said. “That’s entirely up to you. Even if you don’t, I may have to call you as a witness at the trial and I’ll have to disclose your name to the state attorney’s office. This is the kind of information they need to have and maybe the earlier they get it, the better.”
“So, you think I should call them?”
“Let me put it this way. I wouldn’t be upset if you did. If you decide to call, you might want to call the assistant state attorney prosecuting this case. I don’t know who that will be, but I’ll find out on Monday and let you know, or you can call the office in Bushnell, and they’ll give you his name.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“I have a big favor to ask of you. Would you mind going over the almost-collision again with me and let me record it? I’ll bring you a typed transcript and you can sign it. I’ll give you a copy.”
“Sure. Let me check on Frank.” She poured another beer, took it to Frank, and came back down the bar. I turned on the recorder on my phone and we were off to the races.
CHAPTER 8
I DROVE BACK to the detention center and met Esther in the same little conference room we’d used that morning. “How’re you doing?” I asked.
She smiled. She was in good spirits considering the circumstances. “Pretty good,” she said. “They even gave me a private cell.”
Vindication Page 5
