Brownie entered the driveway of his mother’s house and braked suddenly to avoid a vehicle parked behind Althea’s sedan. The car was a shiny full-sized job, polished and waxed, fitted with every bell and whistle in stock.
Brownie opened the kitchen door and entered quietly. “God’s will be done,” Reverend Taylor’s voice echoed from the parlor. Brownie moved into sight of the sofa.
“Joseph Junior,” Althea exclaimed.
Reverend Taylor stood up and almost spilled his coffee.
“Mama, Reverend,” Brownie replied, moving closer.
“Brother Brown,” Taylor said.
Brownie kissed his mother on the cheek. “How’re you doin’, Mama?”
“Reverend Taylor was just paying me a visit,” Althea responded guiltily. She had always been a member of Reverend Boyd’s congregation.
“During these hard times,” the reverend began, “I try to comfort… as I can. “
“I’m sure you do,” Brownie answered.
“So how goes it with you, Brother Brown, since you saw fit to abandon the efforts that we were attempting on your behalf?”
Brownie looked him in the eye. “I didn’t abandon you.”
Taylor lifted his cup toward his lips. “You got yourself a new lawyer.”
“That was done for me, not by me.”
“Reverend Taylor says that everyone in Blocktown is praying for you, son,” Althea interjected.
“I appreciate the help,” Brownie said to Taylor. “I know what you all tried to do. Just didn’t work out, that’s all.”
Taylor smiled. “We were trying to hold it together for you, brother, trying to come up with our own solutions to our own problems.”
“But it’s my problem,” Brownie replied.
Taylor put down his cup and stood. “I can see that you two need time together,” he said. “I’ll be on my way, got more folks to visit today.”
“Thank you for coming,” Althea said.
“Keep the faith,” Taylor replied. “And remember what I said.” He turned to Brownie. “God be with you, brother.”
“When did that start, Mama?” Brownie asked when he and his mother were alone.
“What, son?” She looked disappointed that her visitor had departed.
“How long has he been comin’ over here?”
“For a while now. I’ve been lonely, depressed. He’s been helping.…”
Brownie felt discomfort. He’d been scarce around here, almost nonexistent. Being in jail was one thing. Mama visited him there a lot. But after his release, he’d avoided her.
“You haven’t paid me much mind,” Althea continued.
Brownie put his arms around her, squeezing tightly. “Sorry, Mama,” he said against her head. “Really sorry.”
“I’m tryin’ to understand, Joseph,” she said.
“I’ll do better, Mama, I really will.” They embraced for a minute without talking. Finally, Brownie let go.
“Mama, I need to ask you something. Have you heard anything from Paulie?”
Althea frowned. “Why, son? Is this about the killing?”
“No, Mama. Not at all. I’m just wondering how he’s doing.”
Althea shook her head. The sadness in her life seemed never-ending.
“Has he been in touch with you lately?”
Althea shook her head again.
“Has he called?”
“Just one time.”
“And what did he say?”
Althea’s eyes teared. “That he didn’t want Daddy’s money.”
Brownie raised an eyebrow. “You sent him the pension?”
“A piece of it. But he sent it back. He’s such a proud boy.”
Brownie suddenly wasn’t listening. His eyes were locked on Taylor’s coffee cup. “Mama, do you think I could get something to drink?”
“Sure, son.” Althea stood and walked toward the kitchen. “Coffee?”
“That’s fine.”
Althea disappeared, and Brownie took out his pen, poked it through the handle of Taylor’s cup, and lifted it.
“Cream and sugar?” Althea called.
“Black,” Brownie replied, carefully covering the cup with a napkin and placing it in his coat pocket. He’d noticed Taylor touch the side of the ceramic when he’d laid it down, an ideal surface for fingerprints.
Gardner and Jennifer navigated the twisting road to the house on Watson Road where Carole and Granville lived. It was Sunday afternoon. Snow was falling, and Christmas was two weeks away. Gardner and Jennifer had been so preoccupied with Brownie’s case, they hadn’t prepared for the holiday. So now they were off on a tree-cutting expedition.
“I’m worried,” Jennifer said.
Gardner glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. “About what?”
“About whether we’re doing the right thing. We shouldn’t be so rigid with Brownie’s defense. We have to keep our options open.”
“Jeez, Jen,” Gardner complained. “There aren’t any options. You know that.”
“But it isn’t… right.”
“It may not be right, but it’s all we have, and we have to make the best of it. Stick with me on this and I’ll make it up to you, Jen. When it’s over. I promise.”
“How?” she finally asked.
Gardner concentrated on his driving. A thin layer of snow had coated the road, and the lines were obscured. “I’ll make it up,” he said at last. The magic words still wouldn’t come.
Gardner braked near the entrance to the mansion and tooted the horn. There was no use haggling about it now, especially in front of Granville. “Let’s talk about it later. Please?”
Jennifer assented silently. Everything important was always “later.”
Granville soon appeared, bundled in outerwear. “Four-thirty,” Carole hollered from the door. “Have him back then!”
“Fine,” Gardner yelled as his son leaped into the car.
“Hi, Dad. Hi, Jennifer,” Granville said excitedly.
Jennifer kissed him on the cheek.
“Hey,” Granville protested.
Gardner touched his son’s head. “Let’s have fun. How about it?” They started out of the driveway, and the car spun wheels several times.
“Hang on,” Gardner warned, “and put your seat belt on, Gran.”
After twenty minutes, they reached Hempstead’s farm. Gardner paid thirty dollars to a man in a booth and turned onto a gravel road. The man directed them to a rise a hundred yards away, where he said the best trees were. Gardner drove in as close as he could and parked. “Let’s go get her.”
Granville carried the pruning saw and held on to his dad’s hand while Jennifer followed close behind. The conditions were worsening, and the icy gusts burned their faces. Granville spotted a tree he liked and ran to it. “This one, Dad!” he exclaimed.
“You’re sure?”
“Uh-huh!” The boy was certain.
They took turns sawing, and soon the six-foot, perfectly shaped evergreen toppled. “Merry Christmas,” Gardner said, patting Granville’s back and looking into Jennifer’s eyes.
“Whoopie!” Granville hooted.
But Jennifer said nothing. Her cheeks were wet, her expression suddenly sad. And any sign of joy was lost in the blowing snow.
twenty
Gardner answered the knock on the door of the law office. With no secretary or support staff, he and Jennifer had managed everything alone since their resignations. And now, on January second, a week before trial, their ten o’clock appointment was here.
“Dr. Sand?”
An elderly man in a blue topcoat extended his hand. “Julius Sand.” He was wearing glasses and an obvious toupee.
“Thank you for coming.” Gardner drew him inside. “I’m Gardner Lawson, and this is Jennifer Munday.”
“Nice meeting you both.” Sand removed his coat. He was a psychiatrist and forensic pathologist by profession, an expert witness for hire. His specialty was suicide, which put him in heavy
demand across the state.
“Coffee?” Jennifer offered.
“Might stunt my growth,” Sand joked through a row of yellow teeth.
Gardner began, “Mind if we get to work?”
“That’s why I’m here.” Sand sat at the card table, opened his battered briefcase, and withdrew an envelope.
Gardner glanced at his papers. “You have our letter with the case summary and court documents?”
“Yes, and I’ve reviewed them.” The doctor looked fragile, but his voice was strong.
“What do you think?”
Sand laid out the papers in front of him. “Not much, I’m afraid. It’s too thin.”
“How so?”
Sand peered over his glasses. “When a person dies under suspicious circumstances and suicide is alleged, there must be evidence showing a propensity for self-destruction in the final hours. I don’t see it here, not in the facts you’ve asserted. There was no note. The deceased was chained to the power station—”
“I explained that,” Gardner interrupted. “He wasn’t attached.”
“No matter. He was in handcuffs, which implies third-party involvement. I’ve seen one hand cuffed in a suicide, but never two.”
“I explained that also,” Gardner argued. “He was wearing the cuffs when he drove away.”
“All right. We might be able to discount it, then. And the trance-like behavior of the decedent observed by Officer Brown is a favorable point. But other than that we have nothing to go on, nothing on which to base the defense.”
“What about the magazine article?” Jennifer pointed to a photocopy of Sallie Allen’s exposé on CAIN. “Doesn’t playing with snakes show mental imbalance?”
The doctor perused the page, then looked at Jennifer. “To some degree, perhaps, but it doesn’t get us where we want to go. Do you remember the Winters case down in Baltimore?”
Gardner and Jennifer both nodded. Winters was a blockbuster defeat for the Baltimore State’s Attorney’s office about four years earlier. The media had deified Dr. Sand and crucified the prosecutor.
“We had little to go on there, either. No eyewitnesses, little physical proof. But we were able to conduct a psychological autopsy on the victim. The deceased, Betty Layton, had been severely depressed before she died. She talked about death and seeing God. She acted confused and complained of hearing voices. That laid the groundwork for the argument that she used the gun. That, and the psychiatric history…. The police charged Mrs. Layton’s brother, Henry Winters, with the crime because he was in the house when the gun was fired, and there was no note. He also stood to inherit a substantial estate. There were no fingerprints on the gun, and the gunpowder tests were botched by police so they couldn’t tell who had actually pulled the trigger. But my psychological autopsy showed that she had a pathology of suicidal tendencies and a history of mental hospitalizations. That’s what got the brother off.”
“Can’t you do the same thing here?” Gardner asked.
“That’s the problem. Other than Officer Brown, we have no witnesses who will say he was suicidal, and we have no mental or physical records on the man. If he had any mental history at all, we could make a case. But without it, there’s not much I can do.”
Gardner looked at Jennifer, knowing Sand was right.
“Your problem is the victim,” Sand declared suddenly.
Gardner glanced up.
“He’s a complete cipher. There’s no way to do a psychological autopsy on someone you know nothing about. According to the case summary, you don’t have a clue as to who the victim really is, and until you find out, my hands are tied.” Sand realized he’d made a macabre pun. “Sorry.”
“I get the picture,” Gardner said. “But would you be willing to give it a shot anyway, without the records? Base the defense on Brownie’s testimony, the public information on Ruth’s personality, and anything else we can come up with?”
“If you asked me to, I could give it a try, but…”
“Don’t count on success,” Jennifer finished.
“We’d have a lot better chance if we could dissect Ruth,” Sand said.
“No question about that,” Gardner added. “But how?”
After Dr. Sand had left the office, Gardner and Jennifer contemplated what they’d just heard. Gardner fiddled with the file, then raised the telephone.
“Who are you calling?” Jennifer asked.
“The only other person who might help us.”
The connection went through, and a woman answered. “Interview magazine.”
“Sallie Allen, please,” Gardner said.
“Sorry, she’s unavailable at the moment. Who’s calling?”
“Gardner Lawson, an attorney from Maryland. It’s urgent that I speak with her. Can you tell her I’m calling about the piece she did on Thomas Ruth and his Church of the Ark?”
“She’s on assignment.”
“Can you get a message to her? This is very important.”
Gardner repeated his name and added the phone number.
“We’ll let her know.”
“Thank you.” Gardner hung up and turned to Jennifer. She had a skeptical expression on her face. “It’s worth a try. What else do we have?”
Several minutes later the phone rang. Jennifer answered, and her eyes widened. She handed the receiver to Gardner. “It’s her.”
Gardner grabbed the phone. “Miss Allen?”
“Yes. That’s correct.”
“Thank you for returning my call so promptly.”
“No problem. They beeped me. What can I do for you?”
Gardner explained who he was and why he was calling. “We need background information on Thomas Ruth,” he continued. “We’re alleging he killed himself, and we need to show that he was mentally imbalanced. What do you know about his true identity?”
There was a muffled sound as Sallie covered the phone. “What do I know about who he was?”
“Yes.”
“Zero. Our research people couldn’t come up with anything concrete. I tried to pump him, but I was pulled out before I could get him to talk.”
“So you have no idea who he really was.”
“Not really.”
“In your personal contact with Ruth, would you say he acted strangely?”
“That’s an understatement.”
“So he was whacked-out.”
“In a controlled way.”
“What does that mean?”
“He was crazy, but like a fox. Calculating, intense, but definitely not suicidal in my opinion. He was a lot more likely to kill someone else. Not himself.”
“So you don’t believe he committed suicide.”
“No.”
“But would you be willing to testify about his mental condition anyway?”
“Testify…” Sallie hesitated. “Maybe. If our lawyers okayed it. But I have to be honest with you, Mr. Lawson, I don’t buy the suicide bit at all.”
“So you think Sergeant Brown is guilty of murder.”
“From the information that’s been reported so far, yes, I do.”
“Thanks for your time,” Gardner said. Then he smacked down the phone.
“No help, huh?”
“Help? She’d be a great help… to King.”
Jennifer stood up.
“Where are you going?”
“I’ve got something to do.”
“What?” Gardner asked.
“I have to think.”
Jennifer left the office, and Gardner sat at the table staring at the case file. Then he muttered “Shit!” and knocked the folder across the room with his fist.
Reverend Taylor handed the teller at the Forest National Bank a check. She was very familiar with his account, and she smiled through the iron grate. Her name tag read Mary Burt.
“Where’s the deposit slip?” she asked.
“It’s not a deposit,” Taylor replied. “I’d like you to cash it out.”
Mary glanced at the check
. “The whole thing?”
“Yes, please.”
“I’m going to have to get authorization on a check this large.”
“But you know me.”
“That doesn’t matter. The check’s not drawn on our bank, and it’s over the limit. I’ve got to get authorization.”
Taylor glanced behind him. A queue was building.
“Sorry,” Mary said. “I’ll be right back.” She left her alcove and entered the manager’s office. They spoke for a moment, and the manager peeked over her shoulder. Soon Mary returned. “You’re sure you want to cash this?”
Taylor smiled and tried to stay calm. “Yes, I would.” It had taken him long enough to get the damn thing. Of course he wanted it cashed.
“Put your social security number below the endorsement.”
Taylor stopped smiling. That wasn’t normal procedure. “Do what?”
“Put your social security number below the signature.”
Taylor glanced around. The people in line were getting restless.
“The check is okayed. We just need your social security number.”
Taylor folded the check and put it in his pocket. “Never mind,” he said. Then he stepped away from the counter and left the bank.
Brownie arrived at Gardner’s office after Jennifer had left.
“Where were you?” Gardner demanded.
Brownie unbuttoned his coat. Snow flurries had been sweeping the valley all morning, and his hair was wet. “Got held up,” he said.
“You missed Sand.”
“Sorry. How did it go?”
Gardner glanced at his notes. “Not good. He can’t work his magic without explicit background information on Ruth. We’re in a bind, here, Brownie. If we keep going in this direction, you’re going to get convicted. Do you understand that? We’ve got absolutely nothing on Ruth and it doesn’t look like we’re going to get anything, not at this rate. Sand says his personal history is crucial for the psychological autopsy. Without it, we’re in serious trouble.”
Brownie crossed his arms. “Is he willing to proceed without it?”
Gardner nodded. “He will…”
“Okay, then.”
Raising Cain Page 25
