Cover Your Eyes

by Mary Burton

  Rachel wouldn’t discuss science tonight but would stick with her emotional plea to the public: we need to pressure the cops for a DNA test.

  Christ, Rachel, these people couldn’t care less.

  Her brother’s voice all but hissed as she stared at the uninspired crowd and her stomach knotted another twist. She might not muster passion in this group, but the right television airtime could turn up the heat on the cops.

  The news van arrived and Rachel now coveted Colleen’s smoothness. Rachel had no soft edges. Life had sharpened those edges into razors.

  As the news crew unloaded a camera and the reporter checked her lipstick and hair, Rachel scanned the crowd one last time hoping for a flicker of excitement. Off to the left she spotted a man she’d missed the first time. He stood apart from the crowd, partly concealed by a shadow cast by the building protecting his back. Given his dark suit, white shirt, red tie, and black western boots she’d have cast him as a banker or another lawyer. His short dark hair and square jaw fit the possible scenarios. However, the hard angles of his face, frown lines that cut deep, and a battle-ready stance dashed her theories.

  For a moment she wondered why a man like him would be here and then the pieces fell into place. He was Detective Deke Morgan.

  She’d done some checking on the twice-divorced detective and knew about his undercover work before homicide. A decade of monitoring every spoken word, anticipating conditions to go sideways, and burying his true-self deep were habits not easily broken.

  Her stomach clenched. She’d seen him once in court eight or nine months ago. He’d testified in a drug case and though his hair had been long and his beard thick, the eyes held the same intensity as the man edging the crowd. The Deke in her memory had a Tennessee drawl, adding a quiet authority the jury did not ignore. After he’d testified he’d returned to the gallery and remained in his chair, stoic and watching.

  Now his gaze skimmed her meager crowd, studying them until he seemed satisfied that this group was not driven enough to pose a threat. His gaze settled on her.

  Rachel drew in a breath, wishing she could cross now and ask him about her DNA results. But as the idea formed, the news crews turned on their spotlights and shone them in her direction. Now was the time to make her point. Now was not the time to argue with Detective Morgan. She smiled at him, nodded, and then dropped her gaze to her notes as if he did not matter.

  At exactly six fifteen, as the sun set, she stood on the curb, lifted the microphone to her mouth, moistened her lips, and began to tell the story of Jeb Jones.

  The crowd grew quiet and news cameras rolled. Several times she paused to gather her thoughts, which kept trying to skitter ahead. More people stopped to listen and the flicker of the candles in the crowd grew brighter.

  She could see disinterested faces grow solemn as the impact of her words settled. Passersby stopped to listen. “He deserves to have the DNA test.”

  When she finished, the reporter, a woman with a tall lean build emphasized by a red body-slimming dress, moved to the front of the crowd and held out her microphone. A closer look revealed the woman was well into her fifties. “So do you blame the Nashville Police Department for a possible miscarriage of justice?”

  “I can’t speak to what happened thirty years ago. I can only talk about now. And today the Nashville Police Department has DNA evidence from the Dawson murder trial. They’ve yet to respond to my requests for retesting and my fear is that the test will be forgotten or worse, swept under the rug and my client will die in prison.”

  A murmur rumbled through the crowd. More hands shot up.

  “What can we do?” Colleen shouted as if she too were part of the crowd.

  “Call the police department. Call your councilman. Let them know that Jeb Jones deserves to be heard.”

  A rumble washed over the crowd and she had the sense she might be winning. She looked into the camera. “Jeb Jones has been in jail for thirty years. He’s old and he’s sick. His time for justice is running out and we have to act.”

  More rumbles. She was making headway. This might work.

  “What about Annie Rivers Dawson? The victim!” The angry voice shot out from the edges of the crowd.

  Rachel studied the cluster of people and settled on a woman dressed in a dark, loose-fitting dress who stepped forward. She wore her dark hair in a bun and no makeup adorned her pale angled face.

  Rachel had thought someone might remember Annie and had prepared comments. “My focus today is on Jeb Jones. He’s been a victim of the system for thirty years.”

  “Annie Rivers Dawson is dead.” The woman moved forward clutching a well-worn purse close, and moving to within feet of Rachel.

  The reporter and her cameraman had also moved in closer. If Rachel dodged this woman or her question, it wouldn’t play well. The eyes of Nashville were upon them.

  “Annie deserves to have her real killer behind bars,” Rachel said.

  “Her real killer is behind bars.” Despite a mousy demeanor, the woman’s voice reverberated with fierce anger.

  “Her death was tragic,” Rachel said. “I’ve never denied that.”

  The woman fished an eight-by-ten picture out of her large purse. The image was a publicity shot of a young smiling woman and Rachel recognized Annie Rivers Dawson’s face immediately. Annie had had long blond hair that billowed around a face with the perfect blend of porcelain skin, a high swipe of cheekbones, and smiling full lips that added a joyous spark to bright blue eyes. “She was a talented beautiful new mother and she was brutally beaten. Her house was covered in blood and her body was found in pieces because of your client!”

  Anxiety singed Rachel’s skin leaving her cheeks flushed. “Annie’s death was a great loss. Tragic. But the police never adequately proved that my client was involved in her death.”

  “The murder weapon was found in his car!” Her voice had grown louder and her face flushed with anger. “How can you stand there and defend that human piece of garbage?”

  Aware of the crowd’s intense interest, she clung to her control with an iron grip as she lowered her microphone. “This vigil is about Jeb and his right to have the DNA testing.”

  “His right!” The woman advanced a step. “What rights did Annie have? She had the right to live and raise her baby but those rights were stolen from her by Jeb Jones.”

  “The DNA—”

  “The cops found lots of evidence against him, including witnesses who said he stalked her!” she shrieked.

  “He concedes that.”

  “Of course.” Her voice had grown louder and sharpened with a dramatic edge as she now played to the crowd. “Poor murderer. He’s the victim.” She spit on the ground. “The media loves to focus on the perpetrator. They always forget the victim silenced by death.”

  Rachel stepped off the curb and moved toward the woman. Her hope was to calm her and dial down the energy in their conversation. Later they could talk in private. “I haven’t forgotten about Annie.”

  “You might remember her, but you don’t care about her. All you care about is him.” The woman’s fingers fisted around the edge of the picture so tightly, her knuckles turned white.

  “What if Jeb didn’t kill Annie?” Rachel reasoned. “Have you ever considered that the real killer is still out there and perhaps killing other women?”

  The woman shook her head, her gaze zeroed in on Rachel. “The real killer is not out there. He is rotting behind bars as he should be.”

  Rachel searched the woman’s face trying to identify her. She’d read what files she could get a hold of but she couldn’t place this woman. “You knew Annie.”

  Thin lips flattened. “I knew her.”

  “How?”

  Unshed tears magnified the anger glittering from the woman’s eyes. “She was my sister!”

  The crowd hushed and Rachel was aware of the cameras rolling. “I’m sorry for your loss. What is your name?”

  “Margaret Miller,” she said, teeth clen
ched.

  She’d known Annie’s sister still lived in the area but she’d been unable to find her. She’d distributed hundreds of flyers about the vigil so it made sense that word would reach Margaret. “Ms. Miller, why don’t we have this conversation in private.”

  “Why talk in private?” Angry laughter bubbled. “You picked this public place to make your plea so why shouldn’t we have our discussion in public? You hate secrets, right, Ms. Wainwright? Let’s have it out right here.”

  “I do hate secrets.” This entire conversation was going sideways. “Ms. Miller, please know that I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “Don’t tell me you are sorry when all you want to do is free her killer.”

  “All I want is for Jeb to have his DNA tested.” And in a louder voice she said, “DNA testing did not exist thirty years ago.”

  “His blood matched the blood found on the murder weapon.”

  “All we know is that it was type O blood. We don’t have any more specifics. Nothing. Testing then was not as precise as it is now.”

  “How much more evidence do you need?”

  “I need to talk to the paid confidential informant that testified against him. I want to review the police interview tapes and make sure my client received counsel when he requested it.”

  “You are dishonoring Annie with all your legal wrangling. You are perverting justice.” The woman all but screamed her frustration.

  “I want the truth.”

  Dark eyes flared and she advanced, eliminating the final steps between them. “Liar!”

  Rachel held her ground knowing this woman was primed to take a swing. “Please, we need to talk in private.”

  “You don’t want the truth! You want publicity. You want the world to know how clever you are so you can grow your own business.”

  “That’s not true. I want to know for certain that an innocent man didn’t go to jail.”

  “Innocent! Have you read Jeb Jones’s history? The man was a drunk and a cheater. He couldn’t hold a job. He was trouble waiting to happen.”

  Murmurs washed over the crowd. Some folks laughed. “He’s never denied that he had a troubled past.”

  “Oh, well that’s good of him.”

  “Trouble doesn’t mean he’s a killer.”

  The Channel Five camera caught every word of the argument. Later the reporter would pluck chosen sound bites for the eleven o’clock news. “I want justice, Ms. Miller. DNA testing will prove once and for all if Jeb killed Annie.”

  “No test is going to change what I know in my heart! That bastard killed my sister!” More tears welled in her eyes.

  Rachel, drawn by the tears, missed the woman’s right hook, which rose up as quick as a viper. The bare-knuckled fist struck hard against her jaw sending pain reverberating through her head. Thoughts scrambled, she staggered, nearly caught herself, but teetered on her heels and dropped to her knees.

  The sounds from the crowd grew distant as her head buzzed and popped. She was aware of Colleen calling for the police as she pushed through the crowd.

  “Liar!” Margaret shouted. She raised her fist again, poised to strike.

  Rachel braced for another hit as she pulled herself up.

  Strong arms wrapped around Rachel’s shoulders. “Can you stand?”

  Colleen’s perfume wafted. Someone else held a screaming Margaret back.

  No. “Yes.” Drawing a breath, she rose to her feet and wobbled. Colleen’s surprising strength steadied her.

  You are such a wimp! Her older brother Luke’s voice rattled in her head, irritating her. Luke had treated her like one of the boys. He’d been a real bully when they were kids, but if Luke were here now he’d have come to her defense. “Keep your fists up, Rachel. Shit. How could you let a woman like that hit you?”

  Rachel’s head cleared and she planted high-heeled feet, wobbled, and pulled back her shoulders. She balled her fingers into a fist, focusing on Margaret Miller now being held back by a Nashville uniformed officer. The woman’s screaming pounded inside her skull.

  “Call an ambulance.” Colleen’s command snapped like a whip, prompting several to fish in their pockets for a cell.

  Rachel blinked, worked her jaw. “That’s not necessary.”

  “It is,” Colleen said. “You could have a head injury.”

  Rachel readied to protest again when she saw Deke Morgan glaring down.

  He looked amused. “She clocked you pretty good.”

  Rachel righted her twisted skirt and pulled away from Colleen’s protective hold. She stumbled and caught herself.

  “You really need to sit,” Colleen protested.

  Rachel met Morgan’s smiling eyes. She’d eat dirt before she showed weakness. Margaret’s screaming seared her nerves. “I’m fine.”

  Colleen held up two fingers. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

  She glared at the manicured fingers. “Three.”

  Colleen’s gaze narrowed as she studied Rachel.

  “I’m fine,” Rachel said. “Fine.”

  Colleen heard the extra emphasis on the last word and took it as a warning to back off.

  If Morgan had heard it, he didn’t care. In fact, his smile broadened. “You want to press charges?”

  The cameras still rolled but now she wanted the press to go away. She’d meant what she’d said about talking to Margaret in private. She didn’t want a war. “No charges.”

  A restrained Margaret shook her head. “You better arrest me! I’ll hit her again given the chance. She is a menace.”

  The verbal threat earned the woman a set of handcuffs, which constrained her arms behind her back. She sneered at Rachel and spit. Spittle landed inches short of Rachel’s feet.

  Rachel worked her throbbing jaw and prayed it wasn’t broken. “Ms. Miller, this isn’t about disrespecting your sister,” she said. “I want the truth.”

  “We have the truth!” Margaret said. “It’s not convenient for you.”

  The cops led Margaret toward the squad car. She kicked and screamed of injustice.

  “Sure about those charges?” Detective Morgan asked.

  “Take her home,” Rachel said above the woman’s shouting.

  Morgan nodded and without a word, cut through the crowd toward the marked police car. She’d have followed if not for the reporter who intersected her path. This press conference had gone wrong in more ways than she could count.

  Rachel straightened her shoulders and smiled as the older brunette held out a microphone. A floral perfume floated out toward her.

  “I’m Susan Martinez with Channel Five. Can I ask you a question, Ms. Wainwright?”

  “Of course.” Rachel remembered to smile and resisted the urge to rub her sore jaw. Colleen stepped back but hovered close.

  Martinez’s eyes sparked with excitement as if she’d stumbled on an unexpected gem. “You are counsel for Jeb Jones?”

  Rachel imagined how Margaret’s punch played on video. “That’s correct.”

  “Have you met Margaret Miller before?”

  “No, tonight was our first meeting. And let me say I’m sorry she’s upset. It was not my intent to hurt her. My intent is to compel the Nashville Police Department to test the DNA found on the murder weapon.”

  “Do you really believe the test results will clear your client?”

  Did she really believe? Good question. She had a strong suspicion that her client would be cleared but she didn’t know for sure. As an up-and-coming defense attorney, she’d been given cases from the county. Those clients had not been innocent but that hadn’t stopped her from mounting a defense. Everyone had a right to a fair trial. “He recanted as soon as he’d had a few good hours of sleep. Since then my client has professed his innocence for thirty years. As soon as DNA was available he started asking for it.”

  “Do you believe he’s innocent?”

  Stick to the talking points. The world doesn’t need to hear your worries. “What’s important is that the DNA is tes
ted and the Nashville Police Department release it to the public.”

  Ms. Martinez edged the microphone closer to Rachel and dropped her voice a notch as if it were only the two of them. “Are you worried about Margaret Miller?”

  The question didn’t pertain to Jeb, but she’d roll with the punches. “No. She’s upset. She’ll cool off. She more than anyone deserves to know who really killed her sister.”

  “And you think the real killer is out there?”

  She hesitated and then looked directly into the camera. “Yes, I do believe the killer remains free.”

  Deke stood on the street corner watching as the uniforms hauled Margaret Miller away. He’d been curious about the vigil, had made a point to attend, but hadn’t expected much. He had to give Rachel Wainwright credit. She’d scrounged up more people than he thought would care about a thirty-year-old murder case.

  When he’d arrived she’d been arranging her note cards as she’d cast disappointed looks at the crowd. She’d kicked off her dog-and-pony show right on time and he’d settled against the concrete wall behind him and watched her try to galvanize a lifeless crowd. Then he’d spotted Margaret pull away from the group. Her body twitched, tight and nervous, as she’d gripped her purse strap in a brawler’s bare-knuckled grip and fixed her gaze on Rachel. He hadn’t recognized the woman but he could spot the body language of a disturbed person. Immediately, he’d made his way through the crowd, listening, as Margaret’s voice grew louder and angrier. He’d been a few feet away when Margaret had decked Rachel.

  Rachel. Rachel Wainwright. She’d been calling him several times a day for at least six weeks. He’d taken her first call and told her she’d have her results as soon as he did but that hadn’t satisfied her. She’d called back, leaving a long message arguing that the whole testing process was taking too long. She’d accused him of burying evidence to protect his father.

  That comment had pissed him off to the point that he’d considered driving to her office and having it out. But he’d worked undercover too long to let his temper or feelings get the better of him. He’d zipped up his anger and put it aside.