“Of course not.” He paced in front of the table, his steps quick, his shoulders hunched forward.
“Well, I hate to tell you, but the DA’s going to arraign you this afternoon. They’re charging you with Lisa Wilson’s murder.”
“What?” His eyes blazed with gray fire. “But that can’t happen! I didn’t kill that damn girl!”
“I know,” said Mary. “But it looks like we may have to prove that in court. This is just the first step.”
“To what?” Stratton looked wildly around the room. “A lethal injection?”
“No—this is just the first step in due process. We’ll go over to the courthouse at three, the DA will charge you, and the judge will ask how you plead. I will say not guilty. Then the judge will set a date for a preliminary hearing. The DA will probably ask that you be remanded to custody.”
“You mean stay in jail?”
She nodded. “But I’ll argue for bail. I’ll show what an upstanding citizen you are and how undeserving of incarceration.” She uncapped a fountain pen. “But first, I need some more information—the court will want to know about your ties to the area.”
He gave a great sigh—then started recounting his life. “I’m from Seattle. I’ve lived in North Carolina twenty years. Did my undergraduate work at Stanford, got my doctorate at Washington. I’ve run the raptor center since 1999. Never been arrested, never been in jail. Got a speeding ticket back in ’97, in Idaho. My parents are dead. I have an ex-wife who lives in Portland, Oregon.”
“Any children?” asked Mary, thinking of Jonathan and Lily.
“No.”
“If there’s anything I need to know, tell me now. Attorneys hate surprises.”
“Anything like what?”
“Anything like charges that have been dismissed, drug busts you copped a plea to. Anything less than upstanding.”
He thought a moment, then said, “I was stopped once for collecting road kill, in Tennessee.”
Mary blinked. “Road kill?”
“For the birds,” he explained. “Squirrels and opossums, mostly. Raptors love fresh meat.”
“Okay,” she said, making a note. “I don’t think that will make you a flight risk. I’ll be honest with you—yesterday a tabloid came out with a picture of Lisa Wilson’s body. It’s got everybody pretty riled up. I think that’s why Turpin’s moving so fast on this.”
He frowned. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
“It’s an election year. George Turpin would much rather run as the man who put Lisa Wilson’s killer behind bars than the man who let a homicidal maniac go free.”
Stratton leaned forward. “Look,” he said, his tone urgent. “I’m not a homicidal maniac. I can’t stay in jail. I have work to do. Birds to take care of.”
She’d heard this desperation before, in other clients. “I’ll do the best I can for you. First, though, we need to get you cleaned up. Do you have a suit? A coat and tie?”
He nodded. “At home.”
“Could somebody bring it down here?”
“One of my interns could.”
She shook her head. “All your interns have gone home.”
He flinched, as if someone had hit him. “Are Artie and Jenkins still there?”
“Who?”
“My two handymen. Call the Dr. Lovebird number. One of them should answer.”
“And if they don’t?”
He reached for Mary’s pen and legal pad. “If they don’t, forget about my suit and call this number.”
“Who is that?” asked Mary, watching as Stratton scrawled an out-of-state area code.
“Doris Mager. The best raptor woman in the country. If you can’t get me out of here, she’ll have to come and get my birds.”
Five hours later they pulled up in a police car at the back entrance of the courthouse. Much to Mary’s relief, a funny little man named Artie Slade had answered the raptor center phone and agreed to bring Stratton his clothes. Now Stratton sat beside her freshly washed and shaven, looking elegant in a dark blue suit and gold tie. Mary smiled, knowing that Lady Justice was theoretically blind, but she still liked good-looking defendants.
“You want us to spread these photographers out a little, Ms. Crow?” asked Buddy Pease, an old cop for whom she’d just written a will.
“If you could, Buddy,” she replied. She’d hoped to avoid the press, but reporters and photographers clustered thick around the door. Coupled with the throng of outraged citizens who stood in front of the building, the scene gave Mary an ominous feeling—all of Hartsville seemed bent on providing Carlisle Wilson with a suspect in his daughter’s murder, purely as a matter of civic pride. “I’d like to get into the building with as little drama as possible.”
“Why are all these people here?” Stratton peered out the window as cameras started flashing.
Mary said, “You’re big news.”
“I’m not walking in there hiding my face like some criminal,” he warned.
“I don’t want you to,” said Mary. “You walk in there with shoulders square, head high. Remember, you’re an innocent man.”
Buddy Pease got out of the cruiser and starting pushing the press back, clearing a path for them. Mary got out next, then Stratton. As the photographers began jostling each other for the best shots, Stratton adjusted his tie and walked beside her, unflinching through all the commotion. They entered the building through the back door, then rode up to the sixth floor on a service elevator.
“Is it always like this?” Stratton asked.
“The process is always the same,” said Mary. “There’s seldom this much hoopla.”
Finally, they reached the waiting room for Barbee’s court. For a few moments they stood there, awkward, like two actors awaiting their cue. Then Virgil Starnes, the bailiff, cracked opened the courtroom door.
“You’re up, Ms. Crow.”
“Thanks, Virgil.” Smiling as the older man held the door, she whispered to Nick. “Okay—I know you’re mad as hell, but you can’t show it. Just stand up and answer whatever question the judge might ask. Say ‘Yes Sir’ and ‘Your Honor.’ Barbee’s an ex-Marine who likes his law and his whiskey straight and without embellishments.”
They entered the courtroom from a side door. Spectators filled the gallery, greeting them with a rumble of whispered comments as they entered. Damn, Mary thought, everybody in the county must be here. She strode over and took her place at the defense table, Stratton following. Thank God he presents himself like an innocent man, she thought as she laid her briefcase down on the table. She hated clients who skulked in like mangy dogs, guilt crawling over them like fleas.
She knew Judge Barbee appreciated crisp procedure, so she stepped up to the podium. Across the aisle, George Turpin gave her a brief nod as he took his corresponding place as prosecutor. She could tell he was enjoying this. Hell, it was a shitload of free publicity—what politician wouldn’t love that?
Everyone rose as Barbee emerged from chambers, his trademark red tie bright against his black robe. “Well, Mr. Turpin?” he said as he sat down and looked at his docket. “It’s your party. Let’s get it rolling.”
Turpin began to read a long indictment, charging Nicholas Macalester Stratton with the heinous murder of Lisa Carlisle Wilson. Chapter and verse he elaborated, stating time of death, place of death, and claiming, with righteous indignation, that Nicholas Stratton had flouted the laws of all decency when he lured and most viciously strangled and mutilated this young girl to death. As the spectators gasped, he thundered like a preacher on fire with Sunday morning conviction; when he finished he looked at Mary with scorn, as if she were a worm for even thinking of defending such a piece of scum.
“Thank you, Mr. Turpin,” Judge Barbee said calmly, unimpressed by the DA’s hyperbolic oratory. He turned to the defense table, looked over his glasses at Stratto
n.
“Are you Nicholas Macalester Stratton?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What say you to these charges?”
Mary took over. “Not guilty, Your Honor. Mr. Stratton completely and categorically denies all charges.” She spoke strongly, telegraphing to Turpin that he was in for a fight.
Barbee marked something down on a piece of paper. “Alright, since the accused has counsel, I’ll set the preliminary hearing for Monday, September seventeenth.” He looked up. “Mr. Turpin, I’m assuming you want to remand?”
“I certainly do. The best way to keep the people of Pisgah County safe is to keep this man behind bars.”
Mary started speaking almost before Turpin had finished. “We respectfully ask the court to review Mr. Stratton’s past record, Your Honor. He is a doctor of avian biology, he’s run the Pisgah County Raptor Rescue Center since 1999, his only prior offense was a traffic violation issued in 1997, by the state of Idaho.”
Turpin pressed his case. “Your Honor, this crime is horrific. The daughter of a beloved governor has been, in our county, murdered without cause. May I also bring to the court’s attention that Mr. Stratton is not a native Carolinian, with no long-term ties to the community.”
“Your Honor, Mr. Stratton has lived in North Carolina for the past twenty years. He’s an adjunct professor at Duke University, plus his commitment to the wildlife and ecology of these mountains is deep and long-standing.”
“Okay, counselors, I get the picture.” Judge Barbee shook his head. “Ms. Crow, your argument is persuasive, but I’m going to have to deny it. Your client’s residence is too remote, and the mountains present a very easy escape route for someone so inclined. The accused is ordered remanded to custody.”
Mary played her last card. “Without bail, Your Honor? My client has no criminal record, plus he has ongoing federal responsibilities to the endangered wildlife at his center.”
“I’m sorry, Ms. Crow. This time the community trumps endangered wildlife.”
Barbee tapped his gavel as a wave of noise enveloped the courtroom. Two officers appeared to take Stratton back to jail. Shrugging away from their grasp, he leaned toward Mary.
“Don’t I get a shot at bail?” he asked, his voice hoarse.
Mary shook her head. “Not right now. But I’ll start working on it immediately.”
“Then call that number I gave you,” he said as the two officers led him away. “Doris Mager. She’ll need to come get my birds.”
“I’ll call her right away,” said Mary. “Don’t worry. We’ll talk later this afternoon.”
She watched as the officers hustled him out the door, then she felt someone tap her on the shoulder. She turned. George Turpin was standing there, case file in hand.
“Here’s your homework, Ms. Crow,” he said, his fat cheeks swelling as he smiled. “See you in nine weeks.”
Twenty-Two
Jonathan and Lily pulled into Tulsa just before suppertime. They’d gotten a late start out of Memphis, and most of the day had been an unremitting drive into a glaring summer sun. A headache had begun to flirt around Jonathan’s temples between Little Rock and Fort Smith; by Tulsa it had grown into a full-blown hammer, pounding his forehead.
“Where are we?” Lily sat up and blinked, having slept through most of eastern Oklahoma.
“Tulsa. We’re meeting Alex here.”
“Why aren’t we meeting her in Webbers Falls?”
“The hotel’s nicer here,” Jonathan replied. “They’ve got a big pool and in-room movies.” Actually, Alex was hiding them, or at least Lily, from Fred Moon. She’d told him as much last night, when they’d talked on the phone.
Lily stuck her lower lip out. “I’d like it better in Webbers Falls, with Grandpa Moon.”
He started to tell her that he’d like it better back home, or in Mexico or even on Mars, but he kept silent, ignoring her petulance. She’s only nine, he told himself, with a head full of Fred Moon’s shit. She’s doing the best she can.
“Well, for now we’re in Tulsa,” he told her. “Let’s go see if Alex is here.”
“I don’t even know Alex,” said Lily, still full of complaint.
“She knows you.”
“What does she look like?”
“Tall. Pretty.” Jonathan remembered the first time he’d met the leggy blonde, when she’d strode into Little Jump Off. “She’s smart and brave.”
“As smart and brave as Mary?” Lily asked snidely.
“Yes,” he said, thinking back to the long ago ordeal that had bonded Mary and Alex for life. “They’re probably the two bravest people I know.”
Lily had no response for that. They walked across the parking lot and into the lobby. A blast of cold air instantly chilled them. Jonathan looked around for Alex and found her, sitting on a leather sofa just outside the bar. She wore jeans and dusty cowboy boots, and had a briefcase open beside her.
“Alex?” he called.
“Jonathan!” She looked up and smiled, unfolding long legs as she got to her feet. “Lily! It’s great to see you again!”
She hurried over and gave him a sisterly peck on the cheek. Though the Texas sun had freckled her nose and etched a few faint wrinkles around her deep blue eyes, her grin was still broad, and her voice still exuded a kind of no-shit confidence that made him feel like this might not be the end of the world.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” she whispered, then reached down and offered Lily her hand.
“I know how my two boys hate being kissed by strangers,” she said. “So let’s just shake hands.”
Lily shook her hand but didn’t say anything.
“It’s been nearly five years since I’ve seen you,” Alex continued. “You’re growing up to be a very pretty girl.”
“Thank you,” Lily answered stiffly.
“So did you have a good trip?” Alex smiled at Jonathan.
“It was okay,” he said, not bothering to hide the bitterness he felt.
“Well, I think you’ll like it here.” She pulled a key card from the pocket of her jeans. “Let’s go see your room.”
They rode an elevator up to the third floor. At the end of one hall, Alex unlocked a door that opened into a suite. Two large bedrooms were connected by a sitting area, which boasted a wet bar and large screen TV.
“Wow!” said Lily. “That’s bigger than Grandpa Moon’s!”
“Pretty cool, huh?” Alex walked over and lifted something that looked like a small ping-pong paddle. “Got a Wii, too.” She walked over to the bedroom that opened to the right. “Hey, Cecilia. Come on out and meet Lily.”
Jonathan watched as a small young woman dressed in jeans appeared. Her complexion was olive, her long dark hair clasped with a silver and turquoise barrette.
“Hi, Lily. Nice to meet you.” Smiling, Cecilia offered her the same hand-pumping shake as Alex.
“Cecilia’s my assistant,” Alex explained to Jonathan. “Also the best Wii player in Fort Worth. I figured she could turn Lily into a Wii champ while you and I were busy.”
“When do we go to court?” asked Lily flatly.
“Not for a while,” replied Alex. “If we’re lucky, maybe not at all.”
An hour later Jonathan stood on the balcony of their suite, watching as Lily and Cecilia swam in the pool three stories below them. From a distance, they reminded him of two sleek brown otters, racing across a field of aquamarine. He was glad he’d taught Lily to swim early, cajoling her into the slow waters of the Little T when she was barely past walking. “Fim, Daddy!” she’d cry, as she dog-paddled to him, her expression wide-eyed and jubilant. “Fim!” I would give almost anything, he thought wistfully, to go back to that time. I would do so many things differently.
“You okay?” Alex came up to stand beside him, interrupting his melancholy reverie.
&n
bsp; “Yeah. Just watching Lily.”
“You don’t have to worry,” Alex said. “Cecilia will take care of her.”
He looked at the other, slightly longer otter swimming beside Lily. “Oh, yeah?”
“She has a Masters in child psychology. Also a black belt in karate and a license to carry. I use her for all my custody cases. I can think of only one person Lily would be safer with.”
“Who’s that?” he asked.
“You.”
He shook his head. “I don’t know, Alex. I think I’ve fucked things up pretty bad.”
She smiled. “Come inside and let’s talk.”
They went into the bedroom that Alex had set up as a quasi-office. As they sat down on the sofa, she told him to tell her the truth and tell her everything, that she would share it with no one.
“Not even Mary?” he asked.
She smiled. “That’s precisely why I told Mary not to come. What you tell me is between you and me, alone. So tell me everything, but tell me the truth.”
He squirmed on the sofa, feeling as if he were talking to some psychiatrist. He wasn’t totally convinced that Alex would keep this confidential—he’d overheard her and Mary before, laughing over what some unnamed client had done. He supposed he had little choice in the matter, now, though.
“It started when I brought Lily out here for a month’s visitation,” he began. Alex took notes while he told her of Fred Moon, his Winnebago, his constant loading of the motor home with a sly grin on his face.
“Mary thinks I’m paranoid,” he said. “But I knew Fred Moon was going to put Lily in that Winnebago and drive away. I would never have seen her again.”
“Did he ever threaten to do that?” asked Alex.
“No,” Jonathan replied. “But every day he’d be outside, getting that trailer ready to go somewhere.”
“How did you know he was doing that?”
“I watched him from the lot across the street. With a pair of binoculars.” He realized that he probably did sound like someone skirting the outer edges of paranoia, but he didn’t care. Alex wanted the truth.
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