by Nat Williams
“Denied.”
He locked eyes with the state’s attorney.
“Mr. Hilliard, what are your intentions?”
“I’m going to need a little time, your honor.”
“I figured as much. One week should do it, don’t you think?”
Hilliard nodded. “Yes.”
“Mr. Lipscomb?”
“Your honor, I move that the defendant be released on his own recognizance.”
“Mr. Hilliard?”
“Again, the state objects. The defendant’s status is no different than it was when the trial began.”
Peregrino paused. His frustration could be confused with fatigue. Or maybe it was the same thing.
“Next week the court will hear arguments for bond and – much more importantly, in my not-so-humble opinion – whether the state wishes to retry this matter.”
According to a study conducted by the National Center for State Courts and Cornell University Law School, about 6 percent of criminal trials result in a hung jury. Lucky me, Peregrino thought.
The same study, however, showed that 38 percent of juries had at least one juror who voted with the majority against their own belief. That’s where the contending lawyers roll up their sleeves.
“What’s the next step?” David Purcell asked Lipscomb and Rudnick as the three conferred at the jail. He was relieved but still uneasy, an emotion he had never experienced.
“We need to get a handle on what was going on in the heads of those jury members,” Rudnick said.
“She’s right,” Lips said.
“How do we do that? ESP?”
“No, something better. P.I. We’ll get a private dick to chase down the jury members individually, ask them how they voted, and why.”
“That’s legal?”
“Sure. They don’t have to respond, of course. But a lot of times, a juror wants to get it off their chest.”
“Why would they want to talk?” David said.
“During a trial, they are the center of attention,” Rudnick said. “Everyone panders to them. The judge, the prosecutor, the defense team. Everyone in the courtroom looks to these people like they’re all-stars.
“For many of them, this is the most exciting thing they’ve ever done. Lawyers, judges, newspaper reporters, the people they see every night, watching the news on TV and reading about it in the papers. Time stops while they deliberate. People holding notepads, microphones and cameras all wait with bated breath for their decision.
“But once the trial is over, they go back to being nobodies. It doesn’t matter what the verdict is. When a private detective in a fancy suit comes calling, they feel like they still have some influence. Like a drug addict getting a fix. You have to understand. They sacrificed so much. They were away from their families. They had to ask their employers to excuse them. And, they carried a burden. A man’s life. That’s a heavy one.
“They believe they can still affect an outcome, make a difference. The guy who is convinced the defendant is guilty is eager to explain why. He wants to let that detective know how carefully he weighed the evidence and made a sound but unpopular decision. The lady who refused to go beyond the shadow of reasonable doubt wants to let someone other than her husband know how she saved an innocent man from going to jail.”
“And how does that help me?” David said.
Lips deferred to Rudnick with a subtle glance. They had, indeed, developed a very good working relationship.
“It provides us with two very important things,” she said. “If we get enough jurors to talk, we can figure out how many voted to convict, or to acquit. Either way, that gives us a good idea on how to pursue the next phase.
“Also, we can learn what worked and what didn’t work. If there is a new trial, that could guide our strategy.”
“But I don’t think there’ll be another trial,” Lips said. “I don’t think Hilliard has the balls. I think he was on the fence from the get-go. He doesn’t have the heart for another spin on the merry-go-round.”
“Whatever. Just get me out of jail,” David said.
Lips put his hand on David’s shoulder.
“We will. For good.”
CHAPTER 80
Janet Purcell and Obie Lynch sat, side by side, on a couch in the living room of the Purcell home. She had a cellphone plugged into the television. An image of her dad came into view. He looked larger than life on the fifty-four-inch screen. Which was ironic, since he had been dead for nearly a year.
It was like watching a ghost. Elmer Van Okin adjusted the phone, which was in reverse mode, facing him. It wasn’t all that long ago that Janet had shown him how to reverse the camera. Her dad wasn’t really into selfies, but he remembered.
He was sitting in his La-Z-Boy recliner in his living room. Many of Janet’s memories revolved around that chair. Her father had bought it from Meyer’s Furniture when she was thirteen. She had bounced in his lap while he sat in it, even though she was too old for all that. Sometimes, it just didn’t matter. He would always be Daddy.
He had a grim look on his face. He was holding a pistol. He sighed, then began.
“David Purcell killed me. Oh, he didn’t pull the trigger. I did that part. And why wouldn’t I? The love of my life is sitting next to me.”
He panned to Norma Van Okin, who was sitting in a chair, wearing that magenta dress Janet loved.
“God blessed my world by placing her in my path, for leading her to walk with me to that altar, to share my life. To stand by me, to stand with our daughter. To spread her love outward, always giving, never expecting anything in return.
“She’s the best of us. But that’s not her. Her kind soul has been hijacked by that disease first described by Alois Alzheimer in 1906. The disease that could only have been unleashed on this world by the hounds of hell. I love her more than I love myself. I love her too much to look on as her very soul departs, little by little.
“And me? I am an imperfect man. Very imperfect lately. I strayed from my vows as a man of medicine. I began seeing patients as ATMs. Especially those who are abiding in the shadows of legality in the orchards of southern Illinois. Money was a problem. It always comes down to that, doesn’t it? I did everything I could to take care of this wonderful woman. Her contributions to these money problems were not her fault. They were mine. I should have paid more attention. I vowed to protect her, and I failed.
“My son-in-law was having a tough time too. We had our differences in the past, sure, but I retained a grudging respect for him. He tried, I guess. So we had an idea. We could join forces. He sends his workers to me for medical care, and I provide it. That’s what doctors do. But we used them.
“Then I discovered other things about him. How he cheated on his wife – my daughter. Our only child. How he lorded over those who were helpless. How he showed little compassion for those under his authority.
“Janet, I’m so sorry. I didn’t want it to end like this. But there’s no other way. Sometimes you have to cut off an appendage to save the body. It’s like surgery. That’s all I did tonight. Maybe I was selfish. Maybe I’m doing the wrong thing. I don’t know. Who does, other than God himself? I’ll soon find out.
“Your mother deserved to leave this world with a trace of her dignity intact. She earned the right to be remembered for the totality of her wonderful life, not the end of it, ravaged by disease. Janet, you know your mother was exceedingly proud of you. I know you hoped I was too. I may not have shown it, but I was proud of you. We’re leaving you so that you can move on with your life. Make the best of it.”
The video ended with blackness. Obie held Janet tight as she finally let out all her emotions. She had kept them in check, for the most part, all these months. There was so much keeping her from expressing the depths of her sorrow.
She had watched the video before, after David had told her where he had hidden the cellphone, along with the gun. She was consumed with hatred. She told him that the evidence that could acquit him o
f murder wasn’t where he said it would be.
This was the first time Obie had seen the video. There had been hints throughout this ordeal. But he had never been let in on the dark, disturbing secret that Janet had kept hidden from the world. But now the burden was too heavy. The hatred was torturing her. The appeal of revenge had faded, and was slowly being replaced by a nagging regret.
Maybe she was being hypocritical. After all, here she was, with a man who wasn’t her husband. But she found solace in the belief that she was only responding in kind. She had been betrayed first. That betrayal deserved a response.
“What are you going to do with this?” Obie said. “Are you going to turn it in?”
Janet gently placed her head on him, at that wonderful spot between the upper chest and the chin. That way she could not only feel Obie’s warmth and hear his heartbeat, but also experience the calming sensation of his breath blowing lightly across her hair.
“Probably. When the divorce is final.”
“Do you feel guilty?”
“Always,” Janet said. A tear ran down her cheek.
“Are you guilty?”
She grabbed Obie hard, kissing him even harder.
“Aren’t we all?”
EPILOG
“So, where do you go from here?” Frank Bachelor said.
Doug Munro and Bachelor were seated at a corner table at Roy’s. Bachelor was enjoying a chicken salad on rye. Munro was crunching his way through a BLT stacked like a game of Jenga.
“Not sure,” Munro said after taking a huge swig of sweet tea.
The FBI agent’s investigation had folded months ago, when his bosses at the Bureau didn’t see a bright future in a small-time, small-town Medicaid fraud case in which one of the two main suspects was dead and the other one was in jail on a murder charge. There were more pressing concerns. Like terrorism.
Munro had spent the interim working out of the Chicago office, scoring some points with success in an embezzlement case against a vice president of an FDIC-insured bank in Naperville. He had also helped nail the reptilian administrator of a GoFundMe campaign who took advantage of a child suffering from leukemia in order to make enough money to pay for his girlfriend’s breast implants. That one was pretty satisfying. But still …
“I’m thinking about retirement.”
“Retirement? You’re not that old.”
“In the world of federal law enforcement, old is young. You can’t make a better career move than latching onto a government job. Automatic raises, job security, retirement with full pension at an age when you’re not even old enough be a grandparent – unless your kid gets knocked up in junior high. What’s not to like?”
“I get the idea you’re not the type to spend your golden age wearing a cute vest and saying, ‘Welcome to Walmart.’”
“I’m thinking about buying a boat.”
“No you’re not.”
“How do you know?” Munro said.
“I know you pretty well. We’ve been married all this time.”
“You’re right. I don’t trust boats. They can leak. Remember that idea I told you about?”
“The private dick dream? The more I find, the more you make?”
“Damn! You do remember. I don’t know, I may consider something like that. I might even head back down this way. I kinda like this place. Good people. Good food. I can always visit Chicago if I get a craving for a real dog and some top-shelf blues. Though I hear there’s some good blues down here. Plus, Memphis and Clarksdale aren’t too far down the road.”
“I wouldn’t know. I’m into death metal.”
“No, you’re not.”
“Ok, you caught me,” Bachelor said. “Actually, I’m president of the local chapter of the Captain and Tennille Fan Club. We share a booth at the bowling alley the first Wednesday of every month. Budget meetings can get really nasty.”
Bachelor kept his eyes on Munro and smiled with a closed mouth, signaling that he knew his new friend would be back.
“Seriously, if you do decide to slum it down here, do me a favor,” he said.
“What’s that?”
“Give me first refusal. I’d rather have you working with me than against me.”
“I’ll think about it.” He looked up at Bachelor. “Really.”
Munro finished off his meal. Bachelor took his final swig of water, then laid a handful of bills on the table.
“My treat.”
The men walked outside, where Munro’s Cadillac was parked. The door unlocked and the engine started up remotely.
“You know, Frank, I really enjoyed working with you. I have to admit, I didn’t know what to expect when I came down here. And then when we got caught up in the same shitstorm. A sheriff in a rural area, you know.”
Munro opened the door and slid onto the seat.
“Well, it’s not Hooterville,” Bachelor said. He was standing outside the driver’s door. The window was down. “We changed the name to Cherokee Camp.”
“Where the hell did that name come from, anyway?”
“It’s a long story, but you’re heading north. I’d love to tell you about the history of C-Camp sometime. Maybe we can do a little fishing, knock back a few beers. Talk about the future. Hell, I may want to retire too. By the way, Roseanne Cook was asking about you the other day.”
Munro shook his head in amusement. The mention of Roseanne Cook would forever bring a smile to his face. Bachelor hung his head.
“You weren’t the only one with doubts, you know,” he said. “You’re an arrogant bastard, so you were thinking about how you were going to work with a hick lawman. I was thinking the other way. How to work with some asshat federal agent who thought his shit didn’t stink.”
“I guess it’s all a matter of perspective,” Munro said.
“I guess so. Anyway, thanks for your help. We didn’t get the result we wanted, but we fought the good fight.”
Bachelor pushed away from the door, holding his palms out as Munro put the car in gear.
“I have to say, you’re a pretty damn good cop,” Bachelor said.
The gearshift was in drive, but Munro kept his foot on the brake.
He reached over to the passenger seat, picked up a boater and put it on, doing his best impression of Yogi at that garden party.
“Thanks. You’re not so hot yourself.”
Bachelor watched as Munro pulled away and tapped a button on the custom car horn. It beeped the opening notes of Take Me Out to the Ball Game.
FIRE BLIGHT TRIVIA
WLLE, the call letters for the fictional television station in the novel, stand for We Love Little Egypt. Egypt – or Little Egypt – is a nickname for southern Illinois. The term may come from the geographic features of the region and its similarity to Egypt. Another possible origin dates to the 1830s, when poor harvests in other parts of Illinois sent people to the region to buy grain. That episode reminded many of the biblical account of a similar event that occurred in ancient Egypt. The Southern Illinois University sports teams are the Salukis, which refers to an Egyptian racing hound. Many real-life communities are named after Egyptian cities, including Karnak, Cairo and Thebes.
The call letters for the fictional FM radio station WSSI stand for We Serve Southern Illinois.
Many of the character surnames match those of the author’s descendants.
While Cherokee Camp is fictitious, the Trail of Tears did, indeed, cross the southern tip of Illinois.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Nat Williams is a native of West Frankfort, a small community in southern Illinois. He studied journalism at Southern Illinois University and has worked as a journalist for more than four decades, much of that time writing for agricultural publications. He is married, with three children and six grandchildren.
He plays lead guitar in a blues trio and also enjoys golf, traveling and reading.
Fire Blight is Nat’s debut novel. But now that he has the fever, another one is in the works.
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sp; ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Many people are in some way partly responsible for the success of a novel, especially a first novel. Early influences include my parents, who always encouraged me to chase my dreams; Mrs. Dranginis, my junior high English teacher who instilled in me a love of the language; and Mrs. Kinney, the orthography teacher who introduced me to the power of words.
But more than anything, this novel would not exist without the tireless dedication of my editor, Amy Fike Williams, who also happens to be my wife and soulmate. She worked countless hours spotting typos, improving sentence structure, clarifying passages and ensuring continuity. She patiently read the novel from beginning to end more times than we can count, including the many rewrites. I can’t emphasize enough the extent to which her efforts helped make this novel what it is. She is a true partner. What a great pair of eyes. Love ya, Babe!
A big shout-out also goes to my good friend Terry Green, who has decades of experience as both a prosecutor and criminal defense attorney. He provided valuable feedback on sections of the novel that deal with legal matters and trial procedure.
Long-time former Sheriff Don Jones also served in a consulting role offering insight into law enforcement processes.
If Terry and Don got tired of me badgering them with questions, they didn’t let on. Thanks, guys. I owe you a meal at Roy’s Diner.
