I thumped my satchel on the edge of his desk, wincing from soreness, and stood facing him. “How’s the jury look?” My mouth was tight with anger, but I was ready to move past his temper tantrum.
A twitching muscle at the comer of his mouth telegraphed that he’d like to blow up again, but he squelched it.
“‘Bout as useful as an egg-sucking dog in a hen house.” He plopped into his oversized desk chair. “The judge—who incidentally hates personal injury lawsuits and personal injury lawyers—is sharpening his knife on a strop under his bench, waiting for a chance to carve my balls off and string ’em up like Christmas lights. How the hell you get a state court judge that hates personal injury? Thought all those unimaginative, uncaring twits ended up on the federal bench.”
He leaned his chair way back. ‘Tell me something, Av’ry.” His voice was plaintive.
“Jake, you don’t want to hear it. Perforce has a great reputation. Uplift is a very helpful drag. It saves lives, restores people to some level of normalcy. Doctors love it.” I sank into the chair and shrugged. “What can I say?”
“In two, three days ...” He wanted to pick a fight with someone, but now he had sense enough not to pick me. “I’ll need you in court Monday. Opening statements, first thing.”
“You’re kidding. So soon?” No wonder he was boiling over.
“Judge is moving this like a freight train on full throttle. Doesn’t believe in wasting a jury’s time, he says. To hell with fairly representing the folks who’ve been injured. He’s not even doing the usual arm-twisting to get Perforce to consider offering a settlement.”
He didn’t have to explain what that meant. The judge had already made up his mind that it should be a defendant’s verdict. He didn’t intend to wheedle even a token nuisance settlement out of Perforce to cut the trial short.
No need to reinforce for Jake why there wouldn’t be a settlement offer. If he asked, I could give him the word on Perforce’s weak patent research-and-development strategy, but he wasn’t going to ask. Not today.
We sat in silence. I rationalized I’d followed up all the leads I had for Jake, even though that didn’t help him. He had a bunch of injured folks, thousands of his own dollars sunk into trial preparation, and a deck stacked against him.
“I got one more peremptory challenge left. One effin’ more. I had to let them seat a woman who’s a secretary for the defense attorneys’ association in order to hold on to that one strike. I got a judge who wouldn’t strike her as prejudiced.”
That was bad. Attorneys on both sides get a limited number of challenges or strikes they can use to excuse a potential juror. The judge, though, has unlimited strikes. He can set aside anybody who may be unduly biased. Hard to imagine somebody more biased against plaintiffs than someone working for defense lawyers, but not much to do about it if the judge disagrees.
I didn’t bother telling Jake about my car accident or anything else. He was in trial mode. A nuclear disaster wouldn’t easily penetrate his focus.
“Avery. We haven’t found the magic key to this case.” He thumped his feet to the floor and swiveled his chair to face me. “That means we’re left with trying the hell out of the case we have. We got to try this like we’ve never tried a case before. I’ll need you there, watching my backside.”
I nodded. Jake was going to have to fight his way out of his wallow pit. Too bad I couldn’t give him a hand up. I was too sore.
“What’s scheduled this afternoon?”
“We’ll seat the last three jurors and hear the pretrial motions.” He played with a pewter shark paperweight on his desk, swimming it back and forth on his blotter.
“You’ll get all that done today?”
He shrugged. “Judge Bream had his way, we’d proceed directly to die flogging and hanging part.”
On the comer of his desk, my satchel buzzed, startling us both.
He smacked his palms lightly on his blotter. “Gotta go. Oh, and would you look at the stuff we have on Tixtill—one of Perforce’s other drags? I want to see whether you think we can get the problems they had with Tixtill admitted in this case. Talk to you later.”
I grabbed my bag and headed for the hallway to answer my phone.
“Avery. I been calling you for days and all last night, but I couldn’t get through. Where have you been?”
Mom. I’d forgotten to call her. Even worse, I hadn’t told her about my car accident. Now wouldn’t be a good time.
“Urn. I’ve been working, Mom. Sorry. I got your message, but it absolutely slipped my mind.”
“You okay? You sound—preoccupied.”
“I was expecting another call, but I can talk. It’s too early for that other call.”
“Well.” She didn’t sound too vexed at me for not calling her. Or too convinced that all was well. She changed the subject. “You got my message about the dynamite?”
“Um-hmm.”
“That county prosecutor—actually it’s some new kid, not from around here. Josiah’s off at a meeting in Hilton Head and no use to anybody as a prosecutor. This kid just says there’s nothing he can do with the—and these are his words—’tenuous, word-of-mouth, hearsay evidence you’ve brought forth.’ Kid’s got a rod up his butt, if you ask me.”
Mom occasionally hangs around her Aunt Letha and picks up bad language.
“Now I ask you, if a county constable is not a good source of information, I don’t know who is. I got Miranda and her mama to stay over here until Josiah gets back from Hilton Head—”
“Mom—” The targets of a crazed, love-struck, hillbilly dynamite thief as house guests. Not a good plan.
“—seemed the best solution. Constable Lester is helping keep an eye on things, and your father has a gun or two.”
A .22, probably loaded with birdshot, and a .38 Police Special that likely hadn’t been fired since I last took it out to shoot cans, so long ago the soft-nosed bullets would have disintegrated by now.
An armed and dangerous constable who only had three teeth to call his own and my father with a .22—provided, of course, someone alerted my father to the need for a .22. He has developed an admirable capacity for blocking out most of what my mother gets up to. It’s the only way to survive in the maelstrom.
Now certainly was no time to distract her with my trial, with Tunisia, or my car accident. I had survived, and some mud in my wheel wells could hardly compete with stolen dynamite for dramatic effect. The rest, I’d have to save for a real conversation.
“You don’t think it would do any good to call Josiah in Hilton Head, do you?” she asked.
“No, probably not.” Considering he’d likely met a Bambi or a Tawni, and considering how much he’d have been drinking by this late on a Saturday afternoon, I really didn’t think calling him would do any good. “You called the sheriff’s office, didn’t you?”
“They said they’d alert the patrols, but you know how seldom they drive by out here. No, I expect we’ll be fine. We’ll just wait until Monday. Josiah’s supposed to be back from his meeting by then.”
Tanned, rested, and ready to take on Miranda Cole’s dynamite-thieving mountain goober.
“You all be careful, Mama.”
“Of course we will, honey. Good luck with your trial. When you gonna be home?”
Soon, I assured her as I said good-bye.
Now, on top of everything else, I could worry about Mom and Dad. No point in telling Mom how many times innocent rescuers get caught in the cross fire of domestic disputes. This sounded like a doozy, but no point in lecturing. She wouldn’t pay any attention; Dad couldn’t do anything with her. Prayer was likely the only option.
I had wandered to the parking lot while we talked, planning to look over my notes and map my next steps. First, lunch needed to be in the mix. Jake seemed to operate on adrenaline and late-night, large-size bourbons. Not me. It was officially late afternoon, and I wasn’t going to repeat yesterday’s killer migraine. If that’s what I’d had. I doubted th
e doc-in-a-box had tested for anything but alcohol. Doctors often hate to even test for that because a positive result may mean the doc gets dragged into court to testify. If the accident is minor and the cops aren’t pushing for a criminal charge, it’s just easier to turn a blind eye. I’d best eat lunch.
My phone buzzed. This time, it was Cas Kirkland.
17
SATURDAY AFTERNOON
Cas Kirkland tends to bark, the short, staccato delivery of someone used to giving orders. Ex-military? Probably. But now, his tone was subdued and solicitous. Probably as close as he gets to a tender moment.
“She’s been there a while, but one of the guys who used to work Vice recognized her. It’s Tunisia Johnson.”
I didn’t quite trust my voice. “What happened?”
“Looks like something kinky went wrong.” He wasn’t going to bother being sensitive.
“Where?”
“Upstairs. In that abandoned store building.”
I didn’t say anything so he would fill in the blanks.
“The place is a regular Grand Central for scum. Folks looking for privacy, a place to hide, shoot up, get laid, take a crap. They pried the boards loose on a back window and used that as the secret entrance.”
“What happened?” I repeated.
He took so long to answer, I thought our connection had broken. “Apparently she’d learned some new tricks. Or she found a John into something new. Seen guys do this to themselves, but never seen anyone do it to a woman. She sure didn’t do this to herself.” His tone was clinical. I didn’t think he intended the undercurrent of anger for me. “You heard of autoerotic asphyxiation?”
“Yeah.” In law school, one of the peripheral benefits of a forensic medicine class. “A guy puts a noose around his neck while—stimulating himself. The brain panics at the loss of oxygen and the panic intensifies his sexual pleasure.” I wanted Cas to know I too could be clinical.
“Sometimes the jerk ends up dead,” he said. “Great way for your mom or wife to find you, trussed to a chair with your dick in your hand and your eyes and tongue bulging out.”
Whoever walks in on such a scene often thinks the guy has been tortured and murdered. City cops aren’t usually fooled, especially if they’ve seen it before. Or they’ve at least heard about it; apparently investigating one is so memorable that it’s a favorite topic with forensics guys, hence my law school education.
“So what’s this? An accident?” My stomach lurched as I pictured this woman I’d never met but about whom I knew too many intimate details. Now the cops and crime scene guys and the medical examiner knew even more intimate details. The thought embarrassed me. And made me sad.
Cas hesitated before answering. “Something’s funny about this one. She was spread on a mattress on the floor, the rope around her neck, arms, and feet. The way the thing was rigged, any—activity—would have slowly strangled her.”
He talked more to himself than to me. “But something’s not right. Hard to tell on black skin, though she’s light-complected, but my guess is someone moved her after she was dead. Lividity looks like the scene might have been staged. We’ll know more when the ME finishes.”
I swallowed to keep from gagging, glad we were talking by phone. “After she was dead?” I croaked when Cas didn’t say anything for a while.
“The rope left no visible bruising. Hard to be sure until the autopsy, but I’m not believing this was an accident.”
We were both quiet, playing our own mental pictures. His, I’m sure, were more vivid than mine, and mine were sickening.
“When did she die?”
For some reason, knowing when someone died always seems so important. As if, when we know the exact moment, we could remember where we were and we would remember having noticed. Surely something as significant as death leaves its mark on the fabric of our shared universe. Getting philosophical keeps me from crying.
“Don’t know. The heat’s gotten to her a bit. Whoever stuffed her there hadn’t counted on how much heat builds up, even in February. That’s why she was discovered, or at least why someone finally reported it.”
“Dear Lord.” I thought of Tabbi, the little grape-smelling girl with the wide, intelligent eyes. And Linnie Ann and Bessie and the neat little bungalow in Mt. Pleasant, and that sad fright scene on DeBard Street where Tunisia used to live and work.
“When will the medical examiner know something?” Charleston was one of the few counties in South Carolina with a medical examiner. Most of the other counties still had part-time coroners, some of whom had day jobs as funeral directors or farmers.
“Late today or tomorrow.”
“Thanks for letting me know.” I paused. “Do you have to—are you the one who has to tell her grandmother?”
“A patrol officer has already gone over to do that.”
Makes sense to train the young ones in—and give the old ones some relief, before they turn completely to stone.
“Thanks for calling, Cas.”
“Avery, I don’t have to tell you again to stay away from T-Bone, do I?” His voice was a stem order.
“You think he—?”
“He’s not your concern. He’s very dangerous. Do you understand?”
“Yessir. I’m a lot of things, but stupid isn’t one of them.” I had to hang up before I started crying. I hadn’t even known Tunisia Johnson, but the thought of her, trussed up and on display, left me sick.
Just when she seemed to be pulling her life out. Or had she? Had her old life come full circle, caught up with her? Why did this woman I’d never met disturb me so? Because Mark Tilman had wanted to find her. Before he was murdered. Was there a connection? Were their deaths something ominous, or just a sad coincidence?
Looking at it logically, someone likely followed Mark home, thinking he carried drags or syringes or something with street value to and from the hospital. Or someone witnessed the accident and took advantage of the situation. Dauber Dothan could be lying to protect himself.
Tunisia was easy to figure. Somewhere out there, a scary guy named T-Bone lurked. Her lifestyle led almost predictably to a bad end. If I really got carried away, I could start imagining things about Dr. Ellin’s shabby office and his need for money. Too many possibilities. I needed to stop distracting myself with this drama and focus on Jake’s case.
I sat slumped in my car. I needed to eat, but I certainly had no appetite. My muscles ached with even small movements, especially where the seat belt had caught me. Hungry and mourning Tunisia and the trial and everything else, I didn’t quite trust myself to drive.
I locked the car and grabbed a pack of peanuts from the snack machine in Jake’s building, then went to my temporary lair in the comer of the conference room where he’d set up a computer and phone for me. My brain—and my ire—were still chewing on Langley Hilliard’s involvement with Tunisia’s research project. I plugged Hilliard’s name into an online search and got an unexpected hit in a business “insider” news column, dated yesterday.
Rabb Rumored to License New Contraceptive
Rabb & Company, the new drug start-up headed by Pendleton Rabb, is rumored ready to sign a license agreement for an intranasal contraceptive developed by Dr. Langley Hilliard at Barnard Medical in Charleston, SC. Neither party would comment on the deal, but inside sources say the contraceptive has proven at least as effective as the birth control pill, without many of the side effects that concern women as they age. The market is strong as increasing numbers of older women look for safer alternatives with ease of use comparable to the pill.
Insiders say the agreement should be penned in a few weeks, following certification of a final testing stage.
I’ll be damned. Langley Hilliard with a lucrative little drug deal for himself—and two people associated with the Rabb Project were dead. Pendleton Rabb wouldn’t like hearing about that as he hands Langley Hilliard a big check for a license agreement.
Next I pulled up the Tixtill information Jake had mentione
d. Easy to see why this was on Jake’s radar screen. Three years earlier, Perforce Pharmaceuticals and its chief medical officer had pled guilty to thirteen misdemeanor counts in a criminal administrative hearing involving an ulcer drug called Tixtill. The government had charged the company with falsifying test results and failing to report adverse events to the FDA. After a series of smoking-gun internal memos appeared, Perforce stopped fighting, pled guilty, and paid substantial fines.
This was exactly what I had hoped to find—about Uplift. Juries love nothing better than to learn that a company has lied, cheated, and tried to cover up. Cover-ups always give juries a wonderful excuse for awarding damages—often with punitive damages added on to punish the miscreants who tried to get sneaky. But I couldn’t get excited about this. The Tixtill guilty plea was three years ago, and I hadn’t found any reference to wrongdoing involving Uplift or its development. Did mistakes made with Tixtill have anything do to with Uplift? Probably not. Would a jury believe that, if Perforce lied and finagled in one case, they would do it in another? Maybe. Were past sins admissible? Probably not. I’d have to mull on this a bit.
I tried another keyword: Pendleton Rabb. Several articles—mostly Atlanta Journal-Constitution news pieces—scrolled on the screen.
How I love clicking and scrolling. No more dusty basements full of allergy attacks. No more lugging bound periodicals to carts, then rolling them to a photocopy machine hidden away in a subterranean cavern. Point. Click. Printer whirrs. More stuff than I could’ve found in a week, right at the end of my index finger. Sometimes checking the legitimacy of sources or the authenticity of information was difficult, and it came out of context, in bits and pieces. But, ah, the ease. With no sneezing.
Pendleton Rabb’s life unrolled before me: a phone number and address for the company’s Atlanta headquarters, a Web site showing his political contributions—mostly local, all Republican, and surprise, his home phone number. Even Forbes and People had run articles about him and his family.
DONE GONE WRONG Page 14
