A Specter of Justice

by Mark de Castrique

  “In a word, subdued. I think the charges against Hewitt stunned her.”

  Quiet retreat wasn’t the reaction I expected from Shirley. “Did she know Hewitt was seeing Lenore?” I asked.

  “No. That blindsided her. Lenore, Molly, and Shirley were tight and Shirley can’t believe Lenore held back her affair with Hewitt.”

  “Maybe Lenore took Molly into her confidence but excluded Shirley. Both Lenore and Molly were a good fifteen years older, and Hewitt is Shirley’s boss.”

  “That’s what I told her.” Nakayla looked out the window toward Beaucatcher Mountain. I knew she was reliving that horrible scene at Helen’s Bridge. Her eyes teared. “It’s just the avalanche of everything that’s come tumbling down in the last few days.”

  “Did you ask her about the wheelchair?”

  Nakayla wiped her eyes and smiled. “At least that got a chuckle out of her.”

  “Why?”

  “Shirley says Hewitt keeps it as a prop.”

  “A prop?”

  “Sometimes he’ll put his defendant in it. He claims it racks up sympathy points with the jury.”

  Even for Hewitt, the audacity rose off the chart. “But if there’s no medical need—”

  She interrupted me. “Shirley said he always finds a way. A sprained knee is his favorite.”

  “What’s Shirley doing next?”

  Nakayla shrugged. “Waiting. She and Cory talked and decided nothing should be done until after tomorrow’s hearing. Then, assuming Hewitt’s released on bail, they anticipate he’ll call a strategy session. They don’t want to second-guess what that strategy might be.”

  “Well, Hewitt made it clear we’re on the clock so I’m not waiting.” I stood. “Get your coat. We’re going to Hewitt’s house.”

  “All right.” Nakayla brushed her hand across her chin. “But you might want to wipe that drool off your face first, Sherlock.”

  ***

  I slowed the CR-V as we neared Hewitt’s. A police car was parked broadside across the driveway. The late afternoon sun had already dipped behind the back ridge and the deep shadows made the glow of the house’s windows appear all the brighter.

  The mobile crime lab sat diagonally on the apron of the concrete between the detached garage and front porch. Newly had gotten his expanded search warrant. I drove around the bend until I was out of sight and eased to a stop on the narrow shoulder.

  Nakayla unsnapped her seatbelt. “What are the odds we’ll get in?”

  “Zip on the house. Fifty-fifty on the garage.”

  “What makes the garage a better prospect?”

  I reached up and clicked off the overhead courtesy lights to keep the interior dark when we opened the doors. “Because there are two of us, and you’re going to chat up the officer in the car while I circle around him.”

  “You’re going to break into the garage?” she whispered.

  “No. But I’m going to see if someone else did. Go work that irresistible Robertson charm. I’ll give you a minute to get him engaged.”

  We got out and synchronized closing the doors so there was only one sound. Nakayla took a note pad and pen from her jacket and walked back along the road toward the house. I pulled a small flashlight from my pocket and waited.

  In a few moments, Nakayla’s voice rose above the breeze. “Officer, may I ask you a few questions?”

  With that cue, I crossed the drainage ditch and entered the woods separating Hewitt from his neighbor. Fortunately, the ground was still damp from Friday night’s rain. The wet leaves muffled my footsteps and I could see low hanging branches well enough that the flashlight wasn’t necessary.

  I looped up the hill where I could descend behind the single-car garage. The voices of Nakayla and the officer grew louder. I hoped she had stationed herself to keep his back turned away from my approach. Technically, I didn’t cross under any crime scene tape so I wasn’t violating a marked police line.

  I’d been to Hewitt’s house before but I’d never paid attention to his garage. As I drew nearer, I could see there was no rear window. I opted to stay along the side farthest from the house, walking close to the garage wall where the shadows were deepest.

  “I’m not authorized to disclose anything that might have been found.” The officer speaking to Nakayla sounded annoyed.

  I turned the corner and saw him standing on the far side of his patrol car. Nakayla faced me. She was flashing her most ingratiating smile.

  “But surely the warrant specifies what the search is seeking,” she said. “That’s practically public information. Tuck Efird would have no problem with you sharing that.”

  I stepped in front of the garage. Old-style double doors were latched in the center, but there was no padlock. The lax security meant anyone could have gained access. I looked down to see if perhaps a bolt on the bottom secured the doors to the concrete driveway. The lights from the house were bright enough to reflect off silver ends of a freshly severed lock. I knelt for closer examination.

  The police wouldn’t have hesitated to use bolt cutters to remove the tarnished padlock. I could only assume in their zeal they left the lock where it fell. If so, there had been no consideration that it might be evidence and no check for fingerprints.

  “Who are you to tell me what Detective Efird agrees to share?” The cop was coming to the end of his fuse and would soon tell Nakayla to clear off.

  I clicked the flashlight on and played the beam over the lock. The grime from years of enduring the elements dulled the metal except for the shiny ends where the cutter had sliced through the shackle. I bent closer, placing the light to within a few inches of the lock’s base. Fine scratch lines radiated from the key slot. Someone had recently picked this lock. The silver marks were nearly as bright as the freshly cut ends. I pulled my phone from my belt, pressed the camera icon, and placed the lens on the concrete by the lock.

  I managed to take three photographs before the flash caught the eye of the uniformed officer.

  “Hey, what the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  I looked over my shoulder to see him running around his car with Nakayla close on his heels.

  I stood. “I’m doing the job somebody else should have done.”

  “What’s going on?” Tuck Efird shouted the question from the front porch, and then he jogged down the steps and across the driveway. “Why didn’t you keep him back?” he yelled at the patrolman.

  “Because he didn’t see me,” I said. “If he had, he would have stopped me.” I pointed to the padlock lying between us. “Why’d you give up picking the lock? Now it’s ruined.”

  Efird gave a cursory glance down. “What are you talking about? We didn’t waste time picking Donaldson’s goddamned lock. If he’s too poor to buy a replacement, he can put on another fundraiser.”

  “Then you didn’t take time to properly examine it. Someone picked this lock, and if you don’t check for prints, I will.”

  Efird rolled on a pair of gloves and I handed him my flashlight. While he studied the scratches, I emailed the photos to Nakayla, insuring the images were safely in the Internet cloud.

  “You could have made these yourself,” Efird said.

  “I could have. Is your theory I bent down and tried to pick a lock no longer securing anything?”

  Efird didn’t answer. Instead, he turned to the patrolman. “Has someone been stationed here since we found the wheelchair?”

  “The wheelchair I told you to look for?” I couldn’t resist reminding him I’d already contributed to the investigation.

  “We’ve been on-site the whole time,” the policeman said. “If anyone made scratches, it was before the lock was cut.”

  “And Nakayla and I just came to check on the house.” I wasn’t about to let Efird know I’d received advance information from his partner.

  “B
y checking on the house, you mean sneaking up to the garage?” Efird reached in his pocket and retrieved an evidence bag.

  “We saw the driveway blocked, I noticed the lock, and I wanted a closer look. I’d say it was a good thing I did.” I reached out for my flashlight. “You don’t have to thank me.”

  Efird snorted through his nose. “Don’t push it, Sam. You might find you’ve crawled out on a limb with the wrong guy this time.”

  I’d accomplished the most I could hope for. Hewitt would argue someone picked his garage lock not once but twice, and used the wheelchair to frame him. But who? Without a credible suspect, we had no one to fit into that classic defense, “some other dude did it.” No one but the detective standing in front of me.

  Two dead women and their lovers—Hewitt’s affair with Lenore kept private and Efird’s relationship with Molly ending with emotional fireworks. What connections linked them together? And what drove someone to murder?

  Chapter Fourteen

  Asheville’s premier defense attorney was so red in the face I was afraid he’d burst a blood vessel. No one dared interrupt while he vented his rage and frustration.

  “Never in my life have I endured such nonsense!” Hewitt Donaldson spit out the words more than said them. “And, by God, when we find out who’s behind this, I’ll pour every resource I have into getting a conviction.”

  Nakayla, Shirley, Cory, and I sat at the round conference table while Hewitt circled us like we were playing some diabolical version of “Duck, Duck, Goose.”

  He halted his diatribe and a switch seemed to flip somewhere in his brain. He stopped pacing, closed his eyes and took several deep breaths. “I know, I know,” he whispered. “Ranting is getting us nowhere.” With that self-admonition, he sat next to Shirley and began stating the facts at hand.

  We’d been called to his office Monday evening for a five o’clock strategy session. The day had been hectic, and everyone, especially Hewitt, was exhausted. D.A. Carter had bombarded the probable cause hearing with every scrap of accusatory evidence he could muster: the discovery of the wheelchair in Hewitt’s garage and the corresponding tread marks and soil from the two murder scenes; the photograph of a blurry patch of a Hawaiian shirt just above the bridge wall as Molly’s body was pushed over; fibers in the trunk of Hewitt’s Jaguar that appeared to be from the vintage dresses worn by the victims; the threatening phone call placed to our office; hairs discovered at both murder scenes that matched Hewitt’s color and were undergoing DNA analysis; and a sworn statement from Detective Tuck Efird that Molly Staton told him Lenore Carpenter planned to break off her relationship with Hewitt. Carter also made much of the fact that Hewitt was mobile during the Friday night fundraiser with no verification of his location at the time of the murders.

  Hewitt offered no rebuttal but asked for an accelerated arraignment and a request for bail. Despite Carter’s plea that Hewitt was a flight risk, bail was set at five hundred thousand dollars. Hewitt Donaldson the accused was now Hewitt Donaldson the lawyer and he jumped into action like a junkyard dog attacking a trespasser.

  “What more can we learn from the padlock?” he asked me.

  “The police lab should disassemble it. If the scratches appear on the interior tumblers, then we know it was more than a surface attempt. Odds are someone opened it.”

  “How would they know the wheelchair was in the garage?” Cory asked.

  “They probably didn’t,” Hewitt said. “They might have been looking for anything to incriminate me and the wheelchair offered both a practical and a damning option.”

  “And the hairs and the trunk fibers?” Shirley asked.

  “I don’t lock the car and there’s a trunk release under the dashboard. I’d prefer some thief open the door rather than break a window.” He ran his fingers over his scalp. “As for the hair, I lose more strands each day than an oak loses leaves in October.” He jotted a note on the legal pad in front of him. “Shirley, check the activity for my credit cards.”

  “For what?”

  “Hell, I don’t know. Surprises. We have to look where the police are looking. I don’t want to be blindsided.”

  Nakayla shot me a glance and I knew something was on her mind. She was reluctant to interrupt Hewitt as he ran through his priorities. I nodded that she should jump in with whatever was bothering her.

  “Hewitt, were you blindsided by Tuck Efird’s statement about what Molly told him?”

  Hewitt swallowed. Nakayla’s question triggered some emotion he tried to repress. After a moment, he waved his hand dismissively. “Hearsay. I could have objected but it will never be admissible at trial.” His eyes moistened. “I can’t cross examine Molly or Lenore so no judge will allow it.” His face hardened. “And if it is introduced, I’ll testify that Lenore told me Molly was afraid of Tuck Efird. They did break up and I can call firsthand witnesses to that fact.”

  “Can you suggest any motive for the killings?” I asked.

  Hewitt shook his head. “No. Other than some link to the Atwood trial, and you and Nakayla are following that trail through Brooks and Junior Atwood. We need to determine for sure where Junior and Cletus were Friday.”

  Cory raised her hand like a kid in elementary school asking permission to speak.

  “What?” Hewitt demanded.

  “Won’t the police be searching for more connections than that? Shouldn’t we be anticipating their looking beyond your relationship with Lenore?”

  Hewitt drummed his fingers on the table while he weighed Cory’s question. Before he could answer, a buzzer sounded from the hall.

  “Someone’s at the door,” Shirley said. “I locked it before our meeting.”

  Cory stood. “It might be Tom Peterson.”

  Hewitt scowled. “Then tell him to pick you up later.”

  Cory hurried away.

  “The Wilson-Atwood custody case is now a real burden,” Hewitt said. “Especially if it gets entangled with my own legal problems. I’m inclined to press Helen Wilson to accept some form of shared custody and put that mess behind us.”

  Hewitt wasn’t one to back down from a fight, but in this case, perhaps all parties would be better served by a settlement.

  Cory returned, but she wasn’t alone. Tom Peterson stepped into the conference room behind her. He wore a crisply pressed gray suit, white shirt, and muted burgundy tie and looked like he was headed for a TV interview.

  “Tom has something he’d like to tell us,” Cory said.

  Peterson walked closer to Hewitt.

  The older attorney remained in his seat. “Well, out with it.”

  Peterson swept his eyes across all of us, suddenly unsure whether his presence was such a good idea. He cleared his throat. “First, I want you to know Cory has told me nothing about the case against Mr. Donaldson or how he plans to defend himself against the ridiculous charges. And that’s what they are. Ridiculous.

  “Second, I plan to resign from the Atwood custody case.”

  Hewitt shifted in his chair. “But you have an obligation to your client.”

  “And that obligation entails mutual trust. The Atwoods are delighted that you find yourself in this current predicament. They haven’t said anything to implicate themselves and I wouldn’t tell you if they had, but to continue to represent them would prohibit my purpose for being here.”

  “Which is?” Hewitt prompted.

  “As a professional courtesy, I’m offering to represent you.”

  I’ve seen Hewitt Donaldson shocked very few times. This proposal made the list. Hewitt’s mouth dropped open and his eyes blinked like a swimmer emerging from beneath the water. Peterson said nothing further.

  Hewitt looked at Cory. She shook her head, not to signal her boss to reject the offer, but with an expression conveying she had nothing to do with it.

  “Well, sir,” Hewitt said with measured
formality. “I appreciate your offer, but I think I’ll be fine with the assembled team. And I still represent Mrs. Wilson and I’d abhor even the slightest perception of possible collusion by either of us with respect to our clients’ interests.”

  “And if I could get the Atwoods to settle immediately?”

  Hewitt’s bushy eyebrows arched. “On what terms?”

  “Helen Wilson retains guardian status and makes all educational decisions for the twins. The Atwoods are allowed custody one weekend a month, beginning at four on Friday afternoons and ending at four on Sunday afternoons. That’s only forty-eight hours out of an entire month.”

  Hewitt rubbed his palm across his chin as he digested the proposal. “They’ve agreed?”

  “Not yet. I’ve only floated it as a possibility. Now I’ll tell them I’m resigning the case, and with your current legal dilemma, there might not be a better time for terms. I’ll remind them their son did shoot the twins’ mother and it will be hard to keep that fact from tainting the merits of their case.”

  Hewitt cocked his head and studied the young lawyer more closely. “And you feel sure you can deliver these terms?”

  Peterson smiled. “Not by myself. I’ve enlisted the aid of their pastor.”

  “Horace Brooks?” I jumped in, unable to restrain my curiosity on how such an alliance had been struck.

  “Yes. I visited Pastor Brooks this afternoon. He agrees some relationship with the twins is better than none at all. He believes a public display of name-calling and spiteful recriminations serve no one, especially the boys.” Peterson paused and gave Hewitt a sly smile. “Can you get Helen Wilson to agree to such a proposal?”

  Hewitt looked across the table at me. I knew he was mulling what I’d told him earlier: how, according to Brooks, Helen Wilson had set out to undermine the relationship between her daughter and Clyde.

  “I will be as persuasive as I can,” Hewitt said. “But that’s a separate issue from your involvement with my case.”