“The name under the picture is Polly Norris.”
“Do you have an opinion as to whether Polly Norris and Olivia Lathom are the same person?”
“No doubt about it. Polly Norris and Olivia Lathom are the same person.”
“Thank you, Dr. Burris. Nothing further.”
Meredith stood. “No questions, Your Honor, but I move to strike Dr. Burris’ testimony on the grounds that it is not relevant to any part of this case.”
“I’ll tie this up with the next few witnesses, Your Honor,” I said.
“Your motion is denied, Ms. Evans. Without prejudice.”
That meant that she could renew the motion, but I thought she’d forego that after my next witness. “The defense will call Dr. Debbie Burris,” I said.
When she had taken the witness stand, I said, “State your name and occupation, please.”
“My name is Debbie Burris and I’m a professor of English at the University of Florida.”
I took her through her qualifications including a PhD and her teaching assignments at the university including her emphasis on American literature. “Your Honor, I would offer Dr. Debbie Burris as an expert witness on the subject of American novels.”
“Same objection, same grounds,” Meredith said.
“Overruled.”
“Are you related to Dr. Gary Burris?” I asked.
“Yes. He’s my husband.”
“Did you have an opportunity, at my request, to review a manuscript that Dr. Burris found in a computer belonging to Esther Higgins?”
“Yes.”
“Did you compare it to a book titled Beholden published under the name of Olivia Lathom?”
“I did.”
“Did you find any similarities?”
“For all intents and purposes, they’re identical.”
“Can you elaborate on that?”
“Beholden is comprised of approximately one hundred thousand words. So is Esther’s manuscript. There is very little to distinguish one from the other. The book has some obvious editing differences from the manuscript, but that’s all.”
“Do you have an opinion as to whether the book Beholden is the finished, publishable version of Esther Higgins’ manuscript?”
“Yes. There is no doubt that the book is the work of the author of the manuscript found in Esther Higgins’ computer.”
“Did you determine when Olivia Lathom submitted the manuscript of Beholden to her publisher?”
“Yes. The publisher received the manuscript from Ms. Lathom’s agent on March 21st of last year.”
“Assume, Dr. Burris, that Ms. Bergstrom testified that she was given the manuscript by my client a few days before Christmas the year before last. Assume further that your husband testified that the manuscript was completed more than a month before that. Added to your knowledge that the manuscript was submitted to the publisher about three months after Ms. Bergstrom received it, do you have an opinion as to whether the manuscript found on my client’s computer was the one that was published as Beholden?”
“My opinion is that the manuscript and the book are one and the same.”
“Thank you, Dr. Burris. No further questions.”
“Ms. Evans?” the judge said.
“No questions, Your Honor, but I renew my motion to strike both experts.”
“Overruled.”
We took our afternoon fifteen-minute break and returned to the courtroom. “Call your next witness, Mr. Royal,” the judge said.
“The defense calls Buford Steerman.”
CHAPTER 52
TWO DAYS BEFORE Jock was called back to the wars, he drove to Camilla, Georgia, to have a talk with Buford Steerman. He arrived at Buford’s property at dusk and found a double-wide trailer set on a concrete slab in the middle of a muddy field. A white van matching the one Amber Marris had seen in Brownwood was parked next to the trailer. Hogs roamed a nearby fenced area emitting a cacophony of snorts and squeals. A miasma of swine excrement hung heavy in the air. Jock took a picture of the van and a close-up of its license plate. He knocked on the front door.
A large man answered, a scowl on his face. “What do you want?”
“Are you Buford Steerman?”
“Yeah. What’s it to you?”
Jock hit him in the solar plexus, that sweet spot just below the sternum, with a short powerful jab. As Steerman bent over in pain, Jock brought his knee up into the man’s face, knocking him backward. He was off balance when Jock pushed him to the floor and sat on his chest, the muzzle of his nine-millimeter stuck in Buford’s left nostril. “We need to talk,” Jock said.
“Okay,” Buford mumbled between gasps. “Who are you?”
Jock ignored the question. “If I let you up, will you behave?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. Sit in that chair,” Jock said, pointing. “If you make any kind of wrong move, it’ll be your last one. Do you understand?”
Buford nodded. He was gasping for air, holding his stomach.
“Let me make myself clear,” Jock said. “You are on borrowed time. Your life is about to end. The only way you have out of this predicament is to tell me the truth. Understand?”
“Yeah.”
“And I’ll know if you’re lying, and you’ll be dead in the next second. We clear?”
“Yeah.”
“People call you Biggun, right?”
“Right.”
When they were seated, Jock started the interrogation. He knew that Biggun had been driving what appeared to be a van through the Hillsborough Village gate on the evening of the Lathom murder and that was his starting point.
When he was finished, Jock said, “Biggun, you just won the right to live a bit longer, but there’s another test coming up.”
“What do you mean?”
“When my buddy Matt Royal calls you to come to Florida, you’re going to get in your van immediately and head south. You got that?”
“Yeah.”
“I’ve recorded what you’ve told me tonight, and when Mr. Royal puts you on the witness stand you’re going to testify to it all. Right?”
“Right.”
“Do you fully understand the price you’ll pay if you don’t do exactly as Royal tells you?”
“You’ll kill me.”
“Right. Do you believe me?”
“Yeah.”
“Have a good evening, Mr. Steerman,” Jock said as he walked out the way he’d come in.
The courtroom gallery had been partially full during a large portion of the trial, but it was an ever-changing cast of characters. I had learned a long time ago that trials brought out the retirees in small towns, probably because it was a cheap form of entertainment. Earlier in the day, I had noticed a man in his thirties wearing a suit and tie sitting near the back and taking notes. Curious, but I thought I might know just who he was.
Buford Steerman took the stand, bringing my attention back to where it belonged. “State your name for the record,” I said.
“Buford Steerman.”
“Are you the brother of Lionel Steerman?”
“Yes.”
“He testified here that you had disappeared from Camilla about a week ago. Where have you been?”
“Here in Bushnell.”
“Tell the jury how that came about.”
“You called me and asked me to come down for the trial.”
“Does your stepgrandmother live in The Villages?”
“Yes.”
“What’s her name?”
“Kelly Gilbert. It used to be Sally Steerman.”
“Did you get a call from her back on March 13th of this year?”
“Yeah. She called me about nine o’clock in the evening and asked me to drive my van down to The Villages.”
“Did she say why she wanted you here?”
“No. She just said she wanted me to pick up something heavy and take it back to Camilla.”
“Did you come to your grandmother’s house?”
“Did you know who lived in that house?”
“I do now.”
“Who lived in that house?”
“A woman named Ruth Bergstrom and her husband, James McNeil.”
“Was your grandmother at that house when you arrived?”
“Yes.”
“Who else was there?”
“Mr. McNeil and Ms. Bergstrom.”
“Anybody else?”
“No.”
“Was this lady, Esther Higgins, there?” I asked, pointing toward my client.
“No.”
“Did you ever hear her name in connection with the death of Ms. Lathom?”
“No.”
“Did the people in the house have a package they wanted you to take back to Camilla?”
“Yes. The body of a woman. She was dead.”
“Where was the body when you got there?”
“In the living room. She was laying partly on the sofa.”
“Do you know if the body had been moved? Say, put on the sofa?”
“It didn’t look like it. She was sort of splayed out there, half on and half off the sofa.”
“Let me show you a picture, which has been identified as a photograph of Olivia Lathom. Was this the woman whose body you found in the home of Ruth Bergstrom and James McNeil?”
He looked at the picture. “Yes.”
“What were you supposed to do with the body?”
“They wanted me to take it back to Camilla and bury it on my property.”
“Do you know how Ms. Lathom was killed?”
“No.”
“Did you see any weapons?”
“No.”
“Did you ask how she died?”
“No.”
“Weren’t you curious?”
“Not especially.”
“Did you do as they asked?”
“I tried.”
“Tell the jury what you did.”
“I put the body in my van and started out for Camilla.”
“But you didn’t get there.”
“Yeah, I did. I went right home.”
“With the body?”
“No. I ran into some trouble and had to dump her.”
“What kind of trouble?”
“There was an accident on Buena Vista Boulevard. Or maybe it was a DUI checkpoint or something like that. Anyway, there were lots of cops and blue lights out there blocking the road. I sure as hell didn’t want the cops finding a dead woman in my van. I took the first turn off Buena Vista and ended up in Brownwood. I had to get rid of the body, so I left it there.”
“In Paddock Square?”
“Yeah.”
“After the night you took the body to the square, did you get a call from somebody telling you to talk to me?”
“Yes.”
“When did that call take place?”
“A couple of weeks later, I think.”
“Who made the call?”
“I don’t know.”
“What did the caller say?”
“He told me that I had to get you off the case or my grandma would be in big trouble.”
“Did you share that conversation with your brother, Lionel?”
“Yes.”
“Did the caller say anything else?”
“He told me where you were staying in The Villages.”
“Did you do anything in response to that phone call?”
“I went to talk to you.”
“At Darrell’s Diner?”
“Yes.”
It’s always a good idea to quit while you’re ahead. “No further questions, Your Honor.” Meredith had not objected to any of my questions. I thought maybe she had just figured that this other Steerman had nothing to add to his brother’s testimony. Now she was faced with testimony from somebody who had been at the murder scene and testified that my client was not there.
Meredith stood. “Mr. Steerman, are you admitting here in open court that you committed the crime of accessory to murder after the fact, among others?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Did you not know that what you did was a crime?”
“Never thought much about it.”
“Mr. Royal never mentioned that to you?”
“No.”
“I think you testified that you didn’t know who killed Ms. Lathom.”
“Yes.”
“And you didn’t inquire.”
“No, ma’am.”
“So you can’t say whether Esther Higgins killed the lady or not, can you?”
“No.”
“Did you notice a gunshot wound in the woman’s back?”
He was quiet for a beat. “Maybe. There was a hole in her blouse with something red around it. Could’ve been blood, I guess. Probably the right size for a bullet hole, but I’m not sure.”
“You testified that you had a conversation with Mr. Royal at Darrell’s Diner. What was that all about?”
“I asked him to get off the case.”
“What did he say?”
“He told me to go to hell and not ever bother him again.”
“Did you? Bother him again?”
“No, ma’am.”
“But you did talk to him just before this trial, didn’t you?”
“Yeah.”
“Did he tell you what to say?”
“He told me to tell the God’s honest truth.”
“Nothing further, Your Honor,” she said. She hadn’t shaken him. Home run for the defense team.
I rose. “No redirect, Your Honor.”
“Call your next witness, Counselor.”
“The defense calls James McNeil.”
CHAPTER 53
THE PICTURE FROM the security video at Barnes & Noble had been the key to my next witness. When I had shown the photo taken from the video to Esther, she had identified the man as Ruth Bergstrom’s husband, James McNeil. I didn’t think his meeting with Olivia was by chance and I assumed he was discussing Ruth’s cut of the book money for giving Olivia Esther’s manuscript. Whatever the meeting was about, I probably wasn’t going to get him to tell me anything, but he was a loose end, and I had to try and tie if off.
I knew from J.D.’s conversation with Ruth that James liked to play golf at the Glenview Country Club and played every day. On the Friday before the trial was to start on Monday, I called the pro shop and told the woman who answered that I was supposed to play with Mr. McNeil that day, but I couldn’t get hold of him and I’d forgotten the tee time. She told me McNeil was scheduled to play at two p.m.
A few minutes before two, I watched four men approach the first tee. One of them matched the picture from Barnes & Noble. I approached him. “Mr. McNeil, my name is Matt Royal. We need to talk.” His surprise and recognition of my name registered on his face.
“What do you think we have to talk about?” His tone was brusque, a man about to dismiss me.
“About the dead woman Biggun Steerman removed from your living room.”
His face reddened, whether in anger or fear, I couldn’t tell. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
I lowered my voice, gave it a steely edge. “Mr. McNeil, you don’t want to fuck with me. You know who I am. You can either talk to me in the restaurant over a couple of beers or we can do it at the Sumter County jail. I can have you arrested before you reach the second green.”
He gave it up then, told his friends to go ahead without him, and followed me to a quiet corner in the bar. When we finished talking, the jigsaw puzzle was complete.
James McNeil took the stand and in answer to my questions identified himself. “Are you married to Ruth Bergstrom?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know Kelly Gilbert?”
“Yes. She’s a neighbor of ours.”
“Do you know Buford Steerman, the one they call Biggun?”
“Yes.”
“How do you know him?”
“The night Olivia Lathom died?”
“Yes.”
“Had you ever talked to Mr. Steerman before or after that night?”
“I called him a couple of weeks later.”
“What did you say to him?”
“I told him that you were trying to railroad his grandmother, Kelly Gilbert, into a murder charge for the death of Olivia. I told him to have a talk with you, threaten you if necessary, and get you off this case.”
“Did you identify yourself in that phone call?”
“No, sir. In fact, I was told to disguise my voice.”
“Who told you to do that?”
“The same person who told me to make the call. Kelly Gilbert.”
“Did you tell him how to find me?”
“Yes. I told him you were staying at your client’s house.”
“How did you know that?”
“Your client mentioned that to Kelly when she visited her in jail.”
“I want you to turn your attention to the night Ms. Lathom was killed. Were you at the scene of her murder?”
“Yes.”
“Where was that?”
“My house.”
“Who killed her?”
He choked back a sob. “My wife.”
“Ruth Bergstrom?”
“Yes.”
“How did your wife kill Ms. Lathom?”
“Shot her in the back.”
“Tell the jury what happened that night. How did it end up with Olivia Lathom dead?”
“It’s not pretty,” he said.
“Murder never is. Tell the jury what happened.”
“Olivia and I were having an affair. It’d been going on for years when we all lived in Atlanta.”
“Did your wife know about this?”
“I found out after Olivia’s death that my wife suspected it.”
“Why was Olivia at your house that night?”
“My wife was going to take a neighbor down to Orlando to the airport. She left our house about seven and I called Liv to let her know she could come over. I’d met with her briefly at the Barnes & Noble bookstore before her signing and had arranged it.”
“Had there been any bad blood between your wife and Ms. Lathom before the night of her death?”
“Yes. My wife had given Liv a manuscript that had been written by your client, Esther Higgins. Liv used the manuscript to get a big book contract and had promised to share the proceeds with Ruth. She reneged on the deal and kept all the money. Ruth was livid about it.”
Vindication Page 31
