by Scott Pratt
“She didn’t have to kill him,” Caroline said.
“Yeah? What would you have done if a drunken redneck punched you and sodomized you?”
“I’d have killed him and cut his dick off.”
“Exactly. There’s really only one other thing I can do. I can try to fix things with Sarah. If I can get her to talk to me, I think I can make this turn out all right.”
“What would you say to her?”
“I’m not sure. Do you know that she and I never talked about it after it happened? I guess we were both so scared and humiliated we didn’t want to go near it. I really think it’s the reason she’s struggled all of her life.”
I sat up on the side of the bed and took a deep breath.
“I’m going,” I said. “I’m going down to the jail. They can’t keep me from talking to her. The worst thing that can happen is that things will stay the same.”
“Are you going to try to talk to her about the rape?”
“I have to. I have to tell her I’m sorry.”
“It wasn’t your fault, Joe.”
“I know that now, but I still feel like I should apologize to her. I’ve handled this almost as badly as she has, and I wasn’t the one who was raped.”
“Don’t expect too much,” Caroline said.
I got dressed and gulped down a cup of coffee.
“Joe?” Caroline said as I was about to walk out.
“Make sure you tell her you love her.”
July 25
Noon
Jail inmates hate a lot of things. They hate the guards, they hate the food, they hate the tedium. But there are two things they hate most of all. One is a child molester, and the other is a snitch.
The administration had moved Sarah to the jail’s protective custody unit in case the word got out that she was snitching on Angel. Protective custody is just like maximum security. The inmates held there are completely isolated. It’s an unrelenting, punitive, miserable existence.
Lawyers who want to see inmates being held in protective custody have to go to them. The guards won’t bring the protective custody inmates out to the attorneys’ interview room, because it would mean exposing them to other inmates along the way. It took me almost an hour of wrangling to get in to see Sarah. The guards knew she was a witness against my client, and they didn’t want me talking to her. But as an attorney, I had as much right to interview witnesses as the police, even star witnesses, and I wasn’t going to let them keep me out. They tried to get Deacon Baker on the phone but were told he was “unavailable.” Frankie Martin had taken the day off and was fishing somewhere. Finally, after I threatened to haul every one of them in front of the nearest judge, they relented.
The guard who unlocked the door to Sarah’s cell walked in and announced that she didn’t have to speak to me if she didn’t want to. True to form, she told him to mind his own business.
He closed the door, and I heard him walk down the hall. The cell was tiny, only eight feet square, and solid gray. It contained a stainless steel platform covered by a thin mattress, a stainless steel sink, and a stainless steel toilet. That was it. There was no television, no radio, no writing or reading materials, absolutely nothing to distract or otherwise occupy the mind. Sarah, barefoot and clad in her wrinkled orange jumpsuit, was sitting on the floor in the corner beyond the sink with her knees drawn up to her chin.
“So this is the way they treat the most important witness in a murder case,” I said. “I wonder where they’d put you if they didn’t like you.”
She buried her face in her hands, and I moved toward her. I got down on my knees and put my hands on her forearms. To my surprise, she didn’t flinch or draw back.
“You don’t have to say a word if you don’t want to,” I said softly, “but I realized something last night and I want to talk to you. I want to tell you I’m sorry.”
I felt tears gathering in my eyes and fought for control. I didn’t know why, but even in my efforts to peel back the curtains and take an honest look at what had happened between us, I felt the need to maintain my stoic image.
“I’m sorry I let you down, Sarah. I’m sorry I didn’t stop him. I’m sorry I didn’t protect you. I should have killed him.”
As with Caroline the night before, getting it out brought down my defenses and tears began to run down my cheeks.
“Please, Sarah. I was so young. I didn’t know what to do. Please forgive me.”
She too began to cry, and I scooted closer to her and put my hands on her shoulders.
“If I could, I’d take you back there right now and get you out of that room, but we both know I can’t. All I can do is tell you I’m sorry and I love you. I’ve always loved you, Sarah. I always will.”
“You were too little, Joey,” she said in a choked voice. “We were both too little.”
She lifted her head and wrapped her arms around my neck. It was a surreal moment, a moment of desperation and honesty and, ultimately, what I hoped was love. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d hugged Sarah, and I found myself content to kneel on that concrete floor and feel her breathing against my neck. We said nothing for several minutes, both embarrassed by the rare show of affection.
Finally, she spoke again.
“You’re breaking my neck, Joey.”
“I’m sorry.” I sometimes forget about my size. I let go of her and scooted back. “I have to get up. This concrete is killing my knees.”
I sat on the edge of her bunk and she sat with me. We talked for an hour. The conversation was slow and stilted at first, but before long she was telling me how tormented she’d been, how the drugs seemed to be the only thing that gave her any relief, if only for a short time. We talked about growing up fatherless, and about Ma and how deeply troubled she was. We eventually got around to the future, the immediate future, and what it held for Sarah.
“So what’s your agreement with the district attorney’s office?” I said.
She looked at me warily. “Is that why you really came down here?”
“Please don’t say that. You know why I came down here. But it’s something we’re going to have to deal with.”
“I’ve agreed to testify truthfully in exchange for immediate release and probation on my sentence.”
“Do you have it in writing?”
“Of course I do.” She reached under the mattress and pulled out an envelope. Inside was an agreement signed by Sarah, Deacon Baker, and Judge Glass. Sarah was obligated to provide “truthful testimony” in court in the case of the State vs. Angel Christian, and upon her having provided that testimony, she was to be released immediately.
“What’s your truthful testimony going to be?” I said.
She gave me a mischievous grin I hadn’t seen in thirty years. “Will you make sure I get my deal?” she said.
I grinned back. “You can count on it.”
July 31
2:00 p.m.
The test results on the forensic evidence found in Erlene Barlowe’s car hadn’t been received from the TBI lab by 9:00 a.m. the following Monday, so Judge Green reconvened the trial. I’d spent a great deal of time explaining everything in detail to Angel during the week. She understood she couldn’t get up on the stand and lie. She understood I couldn’t use the doctor as a defense witness. She understood the risks. After listening intently to everything I had to say and no doubt with some input from Erlene, she decided to go for it.
Frankie Martin did his best, but ultimately he had no murder weapon, no clear motive, and no eyewitnesses. He put Landers on the stand to describe the crime scene and explain the investigation, but on cross-examination I was able to paint a picture of Tester first drinking beer at the Purple Pig, then spending the money he’d received from a church at a strip club. To top it off, I pointed out the fact that Tester was so out of control that he’d spent all the church’s money and had to withdraw even more from the ATM at midnight.
The medical examiner testified that Tester died from bloo
d loss as a result of multiple stab wounds, but on cross she also had to admit that his blood-alcohol level was off the charts. She tried to help the prosecution by pointing out that he’d ingested a date rape drug, but she could offer no testimony as to how the drug entered his body.
An expert from the TBI lab told the jury about the hairs found on Tester’s shirt and explained the DNA identification process to them. On cross he had to admit it was possible that the hairs could have passed from Angel to Tester at the club.
An elderly woman named Ina Mae described for the jury how her cat found Tester’s penis and delivered it to her the morning after the murder. Her testimony provided a brief moment of levity in an otherwise deadly serious trial.
Frankie saved Sarah for last. He would have been better off hanging himself.
“Would you state your name for the record, ma’am?” Frankie began.
“My name is Sarah Dillard.” She was wearing the orange jumpsuit and was cuffed and shackled. She seemed nervous but determined.
“And where do you reside, Ms. Dillard?”
“At the Washington County Detention Center.”
“So you’re in jail?”
“Yes. I was convicted of theft.”
“Are you familiar with the defendant, Miss Dillard?”
Sarah looked at Angel and nodded. “She’s in my cell block.”
“And as a matter of fact, you’re her lawyer’s sister, are you not?”
“I am.”
“And did you contact the district attorney’s office and tell someone that you had information regarding the defendant that might be relevant to this case?”
“No.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I said no. I didn’t contact the district attorney’s office. They came to me.”
“Oh, I see. And who was it that came to see you?”
“That man over there.” She pointed to Landers, who was sitting at the prosecutor’s table.
“And as a result of your visit with Agent Landers, what did you do?”
“Nothing.” Uh-oh. Here we go.
“Nothing? You had a conversation with the defendant, didn’t you?”
“No.”
“This defendant confessed to you that she murdered Reverend Tester, didn’t she?”
“Objection,” I said. “He’s leading the witness, Judge.”
“Sustained. Move on, Mr. Martin. She answered your question.”
“Can I have a short recess, your honor?” Martin said.
“Why?” the judge said.
“I need some time to sort this out. This is a complete surprise to me.”
“That’s quite obvious, Mr. Martin, but I’m not accustomed to stopping murder trials because prosecuting attorneys are surprised. Do you have any more questions for the witness?”
“Permission to treat the witness as hostile, your honor.”
“She’s your witness, Mr. Martin.”
“I realize that, but her testimony is not what I was told it would be.”
“You mean you haven’t even interviewed her?”
“Agent Landers interviewed her. He told me what her testimony would be. She signed a statement. He showed it to me.”
“Use the statement, then,” the judge said.
“Permission to treat her as hostile, your honor,” Martin said.
Judge Green waved the back of his hand at Frankie, as though he was shooing him away. “Go ahead,” he said, “but I don’t think it’s going to make any difference.”
Martin straightened himself and turned back to Sarah. “Isn’t it true, Miss Dillard, that you entered into an agreement with the district attorney’s office to provide truthful testimony in this case?”
“Yes,” Sarah said, “and that’s exactly what I’m doing.”
“Isn’t it true that you told Agent Landers that Angel Christian, the defendant in this case, confessed that she killed Reverend Tester during a conversation you had with her at the jail?”
“No, that isn’t true.”
“Did you not sign a statement to that effect?” Landers held up a piece of paper I assumed was Sarah’s statement.
“I signed a statement Agent Landers wrote. He’d already written it before he came to see me. It was a lie. I’m sorry I signed it.”
“So you’re now saying you signed a false statement?”
“That’s right.”
“You’re accusing a police officer of drafting a completely false statement which you willingly signed?”
“He drafted the statement. I signed it. He never even asked me any questions. He told me if I signed the statement and testified in court he’d see to it that I got out of jail. I’ve never spoken to the defendant.”
Martin turned and glared at Landers. “May I have a moment, your honor?”
“Make it quick.”
Martin moved to the prosecutor’s table and began to whisper in Landers’s ear. Landers shook his head emphatically and whispered back. The exchange very quickly turned into a heated argument, with both men whispering forcefully back and forth. At one point I heard Landers curse. I hoped the jury heard it too.
Martin went back to the lectern.
“You’re lying, aren’t you, Ms. Dillard? You’re trying to help your brother.”
“No,” Sarah said. “You guys were the ones who were trying to get me to lie. The agent said it would give me a chance to get back at my brother.”
“Do you expect this jury to believe you, Ms. Dillard?” Martin said. “You’re a convicted thief and a drug addict, aren’t you?”
“I was a convicted thief and a drug addict when Agent Landers came to the jail. That didn’t seem to bother him when he was trying to get me to lie.”
“This is ridiculous,” Martin said. “I move to strike her testimony, your honor.”
“On what grounds, Mr. Martin? On the grounds that she didn’t testify the way you wanted her to? Your motion is denied. Do you have any more questions for her?”
“It wouldn’t do any good,” Martin said as he turned away from the lectern. He seemed to deflate like a torn balloon. “She’d just lie.”
He sat down. I debated for a minute whether I should ask Sarah anything. She’d already done plenty of damage, but I couldn’t resist twisting the knife a little, so I stepped to the lectern.
“The truth is that you and I haven’t always gotten along well, have we?” I began.
“Not always.”
“As a matter of fact, your most recent conviction was a direct result of my reporting you to the police, wasn’t it?”
“It was.”
“And you were angry with me for doing that, weren’t you?”
“Very angry.”
“How long is your sentence?”
“Six years.”
“And how much of that sentence would you have had to serve if you’d testified the way Mr. Martin expected you to testify?”
“I would have been released immediately.”
“Do you have a copy of the agreement?”
She produced her copy, and I asked the judge to enter it as an exhibit. Martin objected on the grounds of relevance, but the judge overruled him.
“Miss Dillard,” I said, “would you explain to the jury exactly how this agreement came about?”
“Agent Landers came to see me a couple of months ago and asked me if I’d help them by getting to know Miss Christian. He said he wanted me to talk to her and find out everything I could about her and then tell him everything she said. I told him I wasn’t interested, and he left. Then, a few weeks ago, after I’d been sentenced to six years, he came back. He said he could offer me two things: a sentence reduced to time served and a chance to get back at you. I asked him what he wanted me to do. He said he needed me to sign a statement saying that Angel Christian confessed to the murder of Reverend Tester. He already had the statement written up when he came to the jail. It said during a conversation in the cell block, Miss Christian told me she left the Mo
use’s Tail strip club with Mr. Tester after she agreed to have sex with him. She went with him back to his hotel room. It said she went into his room and drugged him, then she killed him and took all of his money. It said she felt no remorse because the man she killed was a pig.”
“A pig? That’s a nice touch. Did Miss Christian say any of those things to you?”
“No. I’ve never even talked to her.” She pointed at Landers. “He made it all up.”
“Why did you sign it?”
“Because I hated being in jail. Because I was furious at you for having me arrested. I blamed you for everything. But I realize now I was wrong. It wasn’t your fault I was in jail. It was my fault.” She looked directly at the jury. “I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “I’m sorry for a lot of things.”
“Thank you, Miss Dillard.”
I thought Judge Green might grant us a judgment of acquittal at the close of the state’s proof. He should have, but ultimately he didn’t have the courage to let a first-degree murder defendant walk out the door without sending the case to the jury.
He looked at me and said, “Call your first witness.”
I stood up. I had witnesses waiting in the hallway, including Virgil Watterson and Erlene Barlowe, but I didn’t think I needed them.
“The defense rests, your honor.”
Martin and I delivered our closing arguments, both of which were brief. The jury retired to deliberate. It took them less than an hour to come back with a verdict.
I knew Angel was guilty, but the jury didn’t. They set her free.
July 31
4:15 p.m.
As soon as the not-guilty verdict was announced, Frankie Martin and Landers got up and walked out without saying a word. Amid the hugs and the tears and the congratulations, I watched Junior Tester walk stiffly out of the courtroom. I was sure he hated me more than ever. I’d portrayed his dead father as a drunken hypocrite who might have been killed by anyone, and the jury’s verdict had given the portrayal at least some validation. As he disappeared through the doorway, I wondered how he’d feel, or what he might do, if he knew the truth about what happened in the motel room that night. I also wondered how long I’d have to keep looking over my shoulder. He hadn’t made a peep during the trial.
