by Scott Pratt
Landers finished his run and headed inside for a shower. He had a date at eight.
April 30
8:45 a.m.
I smiled at Tammy Lewis, a pretty, green-eyed blonde with a sharp sense of humor and a sharper tongue. She’d worked for the circuit court clerk for twelve years. Her primary responsibility was to sit at Judge Leonard Green’s side during proceedings and ensure that his court ran smoothly. There were two criminal court judges that presided over the four-county circuit where I did most of my work. Ivan the Terrible and Leonard Green the dancing machine. I called Green that because he’d gotten drunk at a Christmas party a few years back and started dancing on a table. Cases were assigned by number. Odd numbers went to Glass, even numbers went to Green. Angel’s case was an even number.
“Good morning, Tammy,” I said. “Ready for the circus?”
“Meaning?”
“I’m representing Angel Christian.”
Tammy rolled her eyes. “No kidding? Well, ain’t you just the lucky victim? I guess the question is, are you ready? His royal highness wants to deal with your client first thing. They brought her over from the jail about an hour ago, she’s in the holding cell. There are already three television cameras in the courtroom and at least five newspaper photographers. Reporters all over the place. At least you’ll get some free pub out of this.”
I cringed at the thought of the media in the courtroom. Judge Green was always at his most belligerent in front of the television cameras. He’d often declared his belief that the voting public wanted judges who were tough on criminals, and when the media came to court, he made sure he didn’t disappoint his constituency.
I walked through the clerk’s office and into the hallway that ran parallel to the courtroom. When I reached the door, I stopped and stuck my head inside. Judge Green was not yet on the bench. Green and I had a long history of bickering that sometimes turned downright nasty. I thought he was pompous, small-minded and not very bright. He thought I was a belligerent Neanderthal. Both of us were probably a little bit right.
The jury box was filled with television cameras, newspaper photographers, and reporters. I noticed they started huddling as soon as they saw me walk through the door and sit down at the defense table. Six uniformed Washington County sheriff’s deputies flanked the courtroom. Six was a number reserved for the most dangerous defendants, and I certainly didn’t think Angel qualified. The gallery on the civilian side of the bar was nearly full; there were close to a hundred people in the audience, most of them criminal defendants and their families. They would wait their turn without complaint, hoping to appear before the court in anonymity after the press had packed up and left.
District Attorney Deacon Baker was talking to a television reporter from Bristol near the jury box. Baker rarely made court appearances and hardly ever participated in trials, but he never missed an opportunity to preach the virtues of justice and law enforcement in front of the media. Baker’s newest lead assistant, Frankie Martin, a bright but unseasoned youngster, sat at the prosecution table rummaging through a file.
At precisely 9:00 a.m., Wilkie Baines, one of the criminal court bailiffs, strode to the front of Judge Green’s bench and faced the crowd. The door to Green’s chambers opened and the judge seemed to glide through the door, his perfectly groomed silver hair freshly cut, his black robe flowing behind him.
“All rise,” Baines called in his best town-crier voice. “The criminal court for Washington County is now in session, the Honorable Leonard P. Green presiding. Please come to order.”
Judge Green climbed the steps to the bench and took his seat in the high-backed black leather chair, directly beneath a massive portrait of Judge Green’s dead grandfather.
“Thank you, Deputy Baines,” he said. “Please be seated.”
I, along with everyone else in the courtroom, dutifully sat down.
“Good morning,” Judge Green said.
“Good morning.” Nearly everyone in the courtroom responded, as though they feared the consequences of remaining silent.
“The first case we’re going to address this morning is an arraignment in the State of Tennessee versus Angel Christian.” He turned to the prosecution. “And I see that the district attorney himself has chosen to grace us with his presence today. To what do we owe this rare pleasure?”
Baker’s face flushed the slightest bit. He stood up.
“This is a serious case, your honor. I’m merely here to ensure that all goes well.”
“And to get yourself a little free publicity in an election year, I trust.” Baker thought Judge Green was soft on sentencing sex offenders and wasn’t shy about saying it to the local media. Baker had also openly and actively supported the judge’s opponent in the last election. He was fond of telling people he wouldn’t piss on Judge Green if the judge were on fire. Green, on the other hand, took obvious pleasure in harassing and humiliating Baker every chance he got. I’d seen them nearly come to blows on several occasions. They truly hated each other.
“I didn’t invite the press,” Baker said. “I believe their presence here has something to do with the first amendment.”
“You may not have invited them, but you’ve certainly had plenty to say about this case over the past week. You’ve been on television more than Law amp; Order reruns.”
Baker plunked back down into his chair, either unwilling or unable to spar with the judge, and Judge Green turned to me.
“What are you doing at the defense table, Mr. Dillard?”
“Representing the defendant, judge.” I knew he preferred “your honor.”
“Has she hired you?”
It was a stupid question, but I resisted the urge to say something pithy.
“She has.”
Judge Green raised his eyebrows at me as if to say, “How much did she pay you?” He turned toward the deputy nearest the door that led to the holding cell and barked, “Bring in the defendant.”
The deputy disappeared into the hallway. He returned in less than a minute with Angel beside him. The shackles on her ankles forced her to shuffle. Every camera was suddenly pointed in her direction. The courtroom went dead silent. Just behind the deputy and Angel were two more deputies and K.D. Downs, the sheriff of Washington County. Everybody was getting in on the show.
The bailiff gingerly escorted Angel to the podium in front of the jury box, directly to the judge’s right. I noticed that he patted her on the shoulder before he stepped back. Angel looked tired, scared, confused, and gorgeous. I walked over and stood by her at the podium.
Green turned to Tammy Lewis. “Let me see the indictment.”
She handed the document to the judge. He studied it for a few seconds, then offered it to Wilkie Baines.
“Give this to Mr. Dillard, and let the record show that the defendant’s counsel has been provided a copy of the indictment. Mr. Dillard, your client has been charged with one count of first-degree murder and one count of abuse of a corpse. Do you waive the formal reading of the indictment?”
“We do.”
“How does your client plead?”
“Not guilty.”
“Very well.” The judge looked at Deacon Baker. “I assume you’ve filed your death notice, Mr. Baker?”
“Yes. I filed it this morning, your Honor.”
With the number of stab wounds, the case was probably second-degree murder at best. It certainly appeared to be a crime of passion. But Baker handed out death notices like grocery stores hand out coupons. It seemed that every murder defendant got one. He did it because it gave him an effective bargaining chip — Baker was notorious for offering to take the death penalty off of the table in exchange for a guilty plea just before trial, no matter how heinous the murder.
“What about scheduling?” the judge said.
“We’d like a speedy trial,” I said. “Miss Christian is incarcerated without bond. Since she’s charged with a capital offense and since she’s not from this community and really has no tie
s here, I’d be wasting my breath to ask you to set a bond. But she maintains her innocence and wants a trial as soon as possible. I think I can be ready to go in three months.”
Baker stood up. “There is no way the state could be ready in less than nine months, your honor. This is a death- ”
I cut him off. “I didn’t want to get into this, judge, but since Mr. Baker is going to resist a speedy trial there are some things I think you should know about. As you know, I’ve been doing this for a long time, and I’ve never had a case quite like this one. The police and the district attorney have let everyone know that the victim in this case is a preacher. What they haven’t told anyone is that he spent his last night on earth getting drunk at a strip club. Nobody knows where he went between the time he left the club and the time he was killed. This isn’t one of those cases where the police have the killer dead to rights. My client swears she didn’t see the victim after he left the club. She swears she didn’t kill him, and she shouldn’t have to wait almost a year before a jury hears this case.”
“I object to this!” Baker yelled. “Mr. Dillard is taking this opportunity to sensationalize this case and poison the potential jury pool.”
That’s exactly what I was doing, but I wasn’t about to admit it.
“All I’m doing,” I said, “is asking you to set this case for trial as quickly as possible so an innocent young girl doesn’t have to sit in jail any longer than necessary.”
Judge Green ruminated for a few minutes, then looked down at Baker.
“God created heaven and earth in six days, Mr. Baker. Surely you can be ready for trial in ninety. If you weren’t ready to prosecute her, you shouldn’t have indicted her. How long is it going to take to try the case?”
“A week, maybe less,” I said.
“I have an opening on July twenty-fourth. That’s just under three months from now. Mr. Dillard, since you’re the one who asked for a speedy trial, I won’t expect to see you back in here asking for a continuance. I’ll send you a scheduling order that will deal with pre-trial conferences, expert disclosures and deadlines, motion deadlines and plea deadlines. Anything else?”
“No, judge, not from us,” I said. It was the same week that we were planning to go to the Braves game, but I didn’t say anything. It wouldn’t have made any difference. It was also only ten days before the August 3rd election. It had to be Judge Green’s not-so-subtle method of applying pressure to Deacon.
“Miss Christian,” the judge said, “they’ll bring you over from the jail on July twenty-fourth and you’ll get a fair trial. It will be your responsibility to see to it that you have civilian clothing, and I won’t allow the jury to see that you’re restrained in any fashion. I’ll see you then unless there are motions or unless you decide to change your plea.”
The bailiff took Angel by the arm and led her toward the door. I followed. Just before we reached the door, I noticed a man walking quickly toward the bar that separated the attorneys from the gallery. He was about six feet tall, wearing a blue polyester suit. I’d seen pictures of John Paul Tester in the newspaper. This guy looked like a younger version. The hair was shorter and darker, but he was working on the pot belly and he had the same mutton-chop sideburns. He was pointing at Angel.
“ A fire is kindled in mine anger, and shall burn unto the lowest hell!” he yelled. Everyone froze at the power of his deep voice. I stepped between him and Angel, more fascinated than frightened. “And shall consume the earth with her increase, and set on fire the foundations of the mountains! They shall be burnt with hunger, and devoured with burning heat, and with bitter destruction. I will send the teeth of beasts upon them, with the poison of serpents of the dust. You have taken my father’s life, Jezebel, and I swear revenge upon you!”
I took a couple of steps backward as the bailiffs began to converge. They were tentative, apparently frightened. Tester’s eyes were as blue as robin’s eggs and fiercely intense.
“And you, scribe!” he continued, turning his attention to me. He voice boomed off the walls, and I could see veins popping out of his neck. He stepped through the bar toward me and bumped me with his pot belly. He was so close I could smell his breath. “How dare you blaspheme my father! I swear you’ll pay for it!”
I shoved him hard in the chest. He stumbled backwards as I heard Judge Green’s voice cut through the chaos: “Bailiffs! Arrest that man!”
“She killed my father!” he screamed as he struggled against the bailiffs. “Jezebel killed my father!”
Angel, crying hysterically, was quickly ushered into a jury room just down the hall from the courtroom. I caught up with her and gently took hold of her shoulders.
“I didn’t kill him.” Her shoulders were heaving. “Please tell that man I didn’t kill his father.”
“I’ll tell him,” I said, knowing I wouldn’t be going anywhere near him. “Don’t worry about this. It happens. People get upset. You just try to calm down. I’ll come to the jail to see you in a couple of days.”
The bailiffs took her away, and I walked back into the courtroom. The man was now in handcuffs, standing at the podium in front of Judge Green, looking down at his shoes. The judge had apparently just finished reading him the riot act.
“I understand the emotional turmoil you’re going through,” Green said, “but you, being a chaplain and a deputy sheriff, should know we cannot tolerate that kind of behavior in court. Now go, but sin no more in my courtroom. Court’s in recess.”
Tester’s son a chaplain and a deputy? Any hopes I had of the district attorney’s office acting reasonably were out the window.
As Green disappeared into his chambers, I scanned the courtroom. Erlene Barlowe was on the back row. I motioned for her to meet me in the hallway. She was wearing a black pantsuit and had toned down the makeup for court. If I didn’t know better, I might have mistaken her for a lawyer.
“Now that we’ve done the arraignment, I can get some discovery,” I said. “Why don’t you come down to the office around four and we’ll take a look at what they’ve got.”
“I’ll be there, sugar.”
As we stood together, I looked down the hall and saw Tester’s son leaning against the wall, staring in my direction. There was no mistaking the look in his eyes. It was pure hatred.
April 30
4:00 p.m.
Erlene Barlowe’s granny trained her to be punctual way before everyone in Erlene’s family disowned her because she ran off with Gus. Granny said tardiness was nothing but bad manners, and that people with bad manners lacked character. Erlene didn’t want Mr. Dillard to think she lacked character, so she arrived at his office ten minutes early.
Joe Dillard was a big, strong, good-looking man, just like Erlene’s Gus. If Erlene had been a younger woman and hadn’t been so devoted to Gus, she might have thought seriously about trying to seduce Mr. Dillard. He dressed in dark suits and colored shirts, solid-colored ties, nice shoes. His hair was jet black and wavy, just flecked here and there with gray, and he had green eyes and the cutest dimples Erlene had ever seen. He was well-spoken, too, obviously an intelligent man. Erlene thought he was a little high on the fee he charged to represent Angel, but if he got her off, it’d be worth every dime. Besides, it wasn’t like the fee was going to put Erlene in the poorhouse. If Mr. Dillard had known what she was worth, he’d have asked for twice as much. Gus made a lot of money buying and selling different things on top of what they made at the strip clubs, and he had a fortune in life insurance. When he passed, the lawyer told Erlene she was worth as much as Jed Clampett.
Mr. Dillard showed her to a seat. He had papers spread out all over the table.
“Have you talked to Angel?” he said.
“She called me a little while ago. Poor baby is scared to death. That little outburst at the courthouse didn’t help any.”
“Junior Tester’s a scary guy. Did you see him staring at me in the hallway? He looked like he wanted to cut my throat. That’s why we took the back stairs.
”
He may have been scary to Mr. Dillard, but he didn’t scare Erlene. She wasn’t afraid of any man. If she’d learned anything in the adult entertainment business over the past thirty years, it was how to deal with men. She knew how to make them feel good, and she knew how to make them miserable.
Erlene knew how to deal with preachers, too. When she and Gus first came to northeast Tennessee, the preachers had all ganged up and wouldn’t let them go into business. They put pressure on county commissioners, organized rallies, talked on the news. They did whatever they could to make Erlene and Gus look bad, but the couple had been through it before. They hired good lawyers. It cost them nearly thirty thousand dollars in legal fees plus another twenty in bribes and took over a year, but they finally got their business license and all their permits. Then danged if somebody didn’t burn down their building as soon as they got it up. Erlene and Gus built another one, only to see it too go up in flames. The second time, though, Gus had hidden video surveillance cameras all around the building. Turned out the man who was burning the buildings was a preacher named Hastings. He went to jail. They left Erlene and Gus alone after that, but it didn’t change her opinion of preachers. Bunch of danged hypocrites was all they were.
“Erlene,” Mr. Dillard said, “I’ve spent the afternoon going through this discovery material. I know pretty much everything they have now, and there are a couple of things I need to talk to you about. Do you own a red Corvette?”
Dang it! Why did he have to be so direct?
“I beg your pardon?”
“Do you own a red Corvette?”
“Why no, honey, I sure don’t.”
“Let me rephrase the question. On the day Tester was killed, did you own a red Corvette?”
Erlene had a feeling that before this was over, she and Mr. Dillard were going to get along like two peas in a pod, but right then she thought it best to keep a few things to herself.
