A Murder In Passing

by Mark de Castrique

  Overcash’s mouth dropped open. Nakayla arched her eyebrows and looked at me. That was a damn good question and we all knew it. An old cartridge that wasn’t sealed properly might acquire some moisture that dampened the powder and an uncleaned gun could have barrel corrosion, both of which might reduce muzzle velocity. I wasn’t familiar with the Remington model Lang mentioned, but a bullet fired from a thirty-eight caliber rifle at point-blank range should penetrate and exit. The fact that it didn’t suggested the shot had been taken from a distance, where the broadside of a barn would look like a postage stamp.

  Lang didn’t wait for Overcash to fabricate an answer. He dropped his cane, reached in his back pocket and pulled out a checkbook. “I’m bailing her out. How much is it?”

  “Bail? You can’t bail her out.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  “Only a judge sets bail on a murder charge. That won’t happen until the bond hearing.”

  Lang pointed to the phone on the desk behind Overcash. “Then get a judge on the phone.”

  “I’m not authorized to do that.”

  “Then get the High Sheriff or someone else who can.”

  “It’s already done.” Hewitt Donaldson stood in the doorway to the rear of the jail. He looked from Lang to Overcash. “I called Judge Mercer at home. Lucille and Marsha are on his docket for nine o’clock. He’s calling the D.A now. You’ll probably hear from a prosecutor in about fifteen minutes.”

  “Who the hell are you?” Lang asked.

  “I’m their attorney. Hewitt Donaldson.”

  “You any good?”

  “I got the judge, didn’t I?”

  Lang stepped past Overcash like he no longer existed. “Then I’m hiring you.”

  “For what?”

  “Lucille’s defense.”

  “I’m already her lawyer.”

  “Well, I’m paying you.”

  Hewitt shook his head and his long gray hair flowed out like the whirling swings at a carnival ride. “Sir, here’s my legal advice. For free. Go home. Get a good night’s rest, or whatever’s left of it. The bond hearing is open to the public. Come to the Henderson County Courthouse a little before nine, and we’ll see how this plays out. If bail is set and you want to pay it, that’s your business. Mine is giving Lucille and Marsha Montgomery the best defense I can.”

  “Okay,” Lang whispered. He turned back to Overcash. “Finally, someone who knows what he’s doing.”

  Overcash reddened. “Mr. Lang, we know what we’re doing. And if you’d help us, we can find out if that dead man was your brother.”

  “How’s that? You think I can recognize a skeleton?”

  “No, sir. But you can tell me who was his dentist.”

  “Ben Isaacs. But he retired in 1965 after his office burned to the ground. Jimmy only went to him once. For a tooth ache. So good luck with those x-rays.”

  “Then DNA. You two were twins. I’ll just get a simple swab of your saliva and we’ll learn if we’ve got a match.”

  Lang studied the deputy for a few seconds. “Son, nobody’s sticking anything in my mouth unless I’m eating or drinking it.”

  “But we’ll know for sure,” Overcash protested.

  “I got nothing else to say. At least not till I talk to my attorney in the morning.” He looked over his shoulder at Hewitt.

  Hewitt nodded. He’d just picked up his third client in less than an hour.

  Chapter Nine

  “Who’s hungry?” Hewitt Donaldson whipped his Jaguar into the Waffle House parking lot before either Nakayla or I could answer. “A little sparring makes me ravenous.”

  I wanted to point out that it was nearly two in the morning. I wasn’t ravenous, I was sleepy. But Hewitt was in control.

  We sat in a booth in a back corner, Nakayla and I on one side, Hewitt on the other. A gray-haired waitress set a pot of coffee and three mugs in front of us. I held up my hand to stop her from filling mine.

  “Just a half cup, please,” Nakayla said.

  “Darling, I’ll fill it and you drink what you want. Half cup, three-quarters, makes no never mind to me.”

  Hewitt pushed his cup forward. “You can leave the pot. And I’ll take two eggs over easy with hash browns.” He looked at us. “Order up. My treat.”

  “Whole wheat toast,” Nakayla said.

  “You got any apple pie?” I decided I wasn’t going to sit there with a glass of water and packets of Sweet’N Low.

  “Sure do. You want that a la mode or with ice cream?”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “Ain’t no difference with the pie. If you say a la mode, you ain’t from around here.”

  “Since my grandfather’s paying, make it a la mode and with ice cream.”

  “You got it, honey. Two scoops’ worth.” She left to turn in our orders.

  Hewitt looked around, checking who might be sitting near us. The only other customers were two state troopers at the far end of the restaurant.

  Hewitt leaned forward and put his fingertips together like a church steeple. “Interesting case. Overcash has crawled out on a limb, but I think that has more to do with usurping Greenville, South Carolina, than any desire to make an example of Lucille Montgomery.”

  Nakayla frowned. “What do you mean ‘make an example’?”

  Hewitt turned his hands palm up. “Nothing really. Just that a murder’s a murder no matter how old. He wants to look tough on crime and not be accused of going soft on Lucille because of her age. That’s part of his motivation.”

  “He wants to look better than his Greenville counterparts,” I said.

  “Yeah,” Hewitt agreed, “and he might be motivated by something else. Another shoe may fall in addition to the rifle.”

  “Any ideas?”

  “No. But Overcash isn’t stupid and neither is Noel Chesterson.”

  “Who’s he?” Nakayla asked.

  “The D.A.” Hewitt smiled. “And just like Overcash doesn’t want to play second fiddle to the Greenville Sheriff’s Department, Chesterson won’t want to look intimidated by yours truly. Overcash had to have probable cause to get the warrant. Chesterson will press on if the case has the least hint of being successfully prosecuted.”

  “Which hinges on that skeleton being Jimmy Lang,” I said.

  Hewitt took a deep sip of his coffee and smacked his lips. “Correct. Which means it’s in Lucille’s best interest not to have the remains identified. Old man Lang latched onto that fact and Deputy Overcash has no way to coerce a DNA sample from him.”

  “What about Marsha?” Nakayla asked. “She’s Jimmy Lang’s daughter and they have a sample of her DNA.”

  “If I can get the charges dismissed or reduced from a felony to a misdemeanor, then her DNA is inadmissible and must be destroyed. At that point she has the same rights to privacy as John Lang.”

  Nakayla shook her head. “I don’t understand why John Lang is so adamant about protecting Lucille. Seems like he’d be anxious to cooperate with the prosecution.”

  “Sounds like once Lucille refused to marry his brother his animosity toward her disappeared,” I said. “He told us he’s tried to do right by Lucille and Marsha.”

  “I’ll explore that with him tomorrow,” Hewitt said. “We also need to determine who else could provide a DNA sample.”

  “We know Lang’s son William is a prospect,” Nakayla said. “And he might have children.”

  “Hope for the best, plan for the worst,” Hewitt said. “I’ve got to build the defense upon the assumption that the remains will be identified as belonging to Jimmy Lang. We need to show that even though Lucille had the rifle she couldn’t have fired the fatal shot. Someone else had access to the gun.”

  “Which brings us back to the missing photograph,” I said. “The theft Marsha brought to us in an att
empt to establish the lie that the rifle had been taken at the same time.”

  “A lie we have to reshape into not only a possible theft but also a return,” Hewitt said.

  Nakayla sighed. “It’s going to be a challenge convincing a jury.”

  Hewitt grinned. “That’s my job.” He looked up as our waitress arrived with our food. She set a generous slice of hot apple pie in front of me. Two large scoops of melting vanilla ice cream cascaded over the brown crust.

  Without asking, Hewitt reached across the booth with his spoon and scooped a healthy sample. “And that’s why I’m treating you to this feast. From now on you’re working for me. I know it’s hard to believe, but I’m going to have to stand in front of that jury with more than my good looks.”

  ***

  Hewitt Donaldson rose from his chair and faced Judge Mercer. His gray hair, so scattered the previous night, was pulled back in a neat ponytail that fell a few inches below the collar of his blue pinstripe suit. He’d sat quietly while District Attorney Noel Chesterson reiterated the seriousness of the charges of capital murder and conspiring to conceal evidence of a crime. Chesterson hadn’t opposed bond, but requested the bail be commensurate to the crimes and demonstrate that murder isn’t discounted by the passage of time.

  That final phrase annoyed Mercer, as if the comment had been designed to lecture the veteran jurist. It was clear to me the judge had presided over enough bond hearings that neither histrionics nor exaggerations would sway his rulings. He’d dismissed the D.A. with a wave of his hand, the cue that brought Hewitt to his feet.

  “Your Honor. I’m pleased the district attorney acknowledges my client Lucille Montgomery deserves bail consideration while reminding us that murder doesn’t erode to petty larceny over time. But time has also transformed Lucille Montgomery into an eighty-five-year-old woman in a retirement and critical care facility. She was born and reared in Henderson County, has no criminal record, and lives on a fixed income. She’s not a flight risk, she’s not a threat to anyone, and anything above the most minimal of bail levels will be a financial hardship, even if a bondsman posts her bail.”

  “Fine.” Mercer cut him off. “Bail is set at one thousand dollars.”

  The D.A. appeared startled by the low amount but he didn’t protest. He knew Lucille wasn’t going anywhere.

  “And regarding Marsha Montgomery?” the judge asked Hewitt.

  Hewitt shrugged. “I believe the circumstances leading to the charges speak for themselves. That’s why I would ask your Honor to consider her bail in light of our request for a probable cause hearing to be held as soon as possible.”

  “What?” Chesterson blurted. “We have probable cause. That’s how the deputy acquired a warrant. Your Honor, that would be a waste of the court’s time. I can’t remember the last time we had a probable cause hearing.”

  Hewitt turned to the D.A. “Then perhaps you can’t remember Articles 29 and 30 of the North Carolina Criminal Procedure Act.” He looked back at Mercer.

  The judge frowned. He was obviously unhappy with where Hewitt was going. “Mr. Chesterson, does Mr. Donaldson need to read you Articles 29 and 30, or perhaps impress both of us by reciting them from memory?”

  “No, your Honor.” The D.A. glared at Hewitt.

  Hewitt smiled. “And, your Honor, I agree with Mr. Chesterson’s concern for the court’s time. That’s why bringing charges against Marsha Montgomery, who was five at the time of the alleged murder, warrants our request for the probable cause hearing provided for under North Carolina law.”

  “The charge is for conspiracy after the fact, Mr. Donaldson.” The D.A.’s voice quivered with barely suppressed rage. “We’re talking about last weekend.”

  “Okay. Then I’ll be interested to see how you demonstrate a conspiracy when neither Marsha Montgomery nor her mother saw or spoke with each other between the time of the skeleton’s discovery and when your anonymous witness said he saw Marsha bury the gun. You have checked the phone and visitation records at Golden Oaks, haven’t you?”

  Chesterson said nothing.

  Hewitt shifted his argument back to the judge. “Your Honor might be interested to know the weapon in question is an old Remington fourteen and a half, and yet Marsha Montgomery is supposed to have dug a hole for its full length.”

  “What’s that have to do with anything?” Chesterson asked.

  Hewitt looked at the judge.

  “That model is a short range deer rifle,” Mercer said. “The barrel and stock separate into two pieces with a simple thumbscrew. Much easier to bury in two short segments.”

  Hewitt nodded at the judge’s answer. “I mention that only to show that, like the esteemed district attorney here, Marsha Montgomery was neither familiar with the gun’s workings nor had any conversation with her mother during the time specified. I’m interested in how Mr. Chesterson defines conspiracy if there’s no evidence of communication.”

  Mercer stared at Chesterson. The D.A. said nothing.

  “You raise an interesting question, Mr. Donaldson. Now this isn’t a probable cause hearing, but I would appreciate some enlightenment from the prosecution since a probable cause hearing will likely wind up in my court.”

  Chesterson held up his hands in mock surrender. “I’m certainly not one to contribute to the overload of the judicial docket. For now we’ll wave the conspiracy charges against Marsha Montgomery, but I’ll take what I consider sufficient evidence to the grand jury and seek an indictment. Is Mr. Donaldson also seeking a probable cause hearing for Lucille Montgomery?”

  “No,” Hewitt said. “Her bail has been set and we’re anxious to go to trial. We have no interest in seeing Mr. Chesterson subject Lucille Montgomery to the trauma of re-arrest should he receive his grand jury indictment.”

  “Then we are set,” Mercer quickly interjected. “Bail for Lucille Montgomery is set at one thousand dollars and her daughter is free to go. Anything else, gentlemen?”

  Chesterson shook his head and gathered his papers from the table in front of him.

  Hewitt made no move to leave. “There is one thing, your Honor.”

  “Yes.”

  “Since Mr. Chesterson has dropped the charges against Marsha Montgomery, the law stipulates that any DNA samples collected during the booking process are to be destroyed. I would appreciate if the bench would reinforce that by direct order.”

  Suddenly, Hewitt’s ploy became crystal clear. All of his maneuverings with probable cause hearings had one goal: eliminate Marsha Montgomery’s DNA from the investigation.

  Chesterson looked at Hewitt with dawning apprehension that he had been outfoxed. He just didn’t know why.

  “Write up a brief order,” Judge Mercer told Hewitt. “I’ll sign off on it.” He brought the gavel down in one quick stroke. “This hearing is adjourned.”

  Chapter Ten

  The sign on the door read “Hewitt Donaldson and Associates.” The plural noun barely qualified since Hewitt had only two associates and neither was an attorney. Hewitt claimed he dealt with so many lawyers in the courtroom that he couldn’t stand to be around them in his office. Truth be told Hewitt was a lone gun, beholden to no one but his clients and he was very picky regarding who joined that elite club.

  Nakayla and I entered his hallowed chambers at ten thirty after successfully overseeing Marsha and Lucille’s release from the Henderson County Detention Center and the posting of Lucille’s bail by John Lang. Nakayla and I were to gather at eleven for a strategy session with Hewitt and the two women, but I wanted an advance conversation where we could talk freely without concern for the clients’ sensitivities.

  “Will his Highness receive two humble servants?” I asked the question of the dark-haired woman scowling over the morning mail at her desk.

  Without looking up, she snapped, “The only throne his Highness sits on is porcelain and I advise you not
to be received there.”

  “Good morning, Shirley,” Nakayla said cheerfully.

  The woman dropped the mail and flashed a welcoming smile. “Hi, girlfriend.” She glanced at me. “Why’s Sam Spade with you? Didn’t you get that restraining order?”

  “It was invalid,” I said. “Like most of the legal work done in this office.”

  “What are you talking about? Every legal service performed comes with Hewitt Donaldson’s personal guarantee.”

  “Which is?”

  “That no matter what happens, he’ll still be your Facebook friend.”

  “Does he even know what Facebook is?”

  “I told him it was the book of mug shots at the police station. Hell, most of them are his friends.”

  Hewitt might have been the best defense attorney in western North Carolina, but if he ever had to go against Shirley in a courtroom, she’d turn him into steak tartare. I didn’t know if she had a college degree. She wasn’t an attorney or paralegal. All I knew was that she ran Hewitt’s law practice like a well-oiled machine. She was one of those people born with so much common sense and intuitive insight that she would have been a quick study in any business.

  She was also weird. Her hair was so black that it looked like a hole in the fabric of space/time. She wore white makeup and deep purple eyeliner. If I met her on the street, I’d guess her occupation as Queen of the Zombies.

  But, if you needed something done and done right, Shirley was unbeatable. I couldn’t imagine Hewitt surviving without her. She kept him focused and her quick wit kept him honed for verbal jousting in the legal arena. In short, Shirley was Shirley and anyone trying to categorize her or change her would have better luck teaching a cow to speak French.

  “Is he in?” Nakayla asked.

  “If you mean that corpulent mass he calls his body, then yes. If you mean the neurological mess he calls his brain, then your guess is as good as mine. He came in all fired up from the bond hearing. So, he might be back there writing his lawyer-of-the-year acceptance speech.”

  “Do you want to tell him we’re here?” I asked.