Blood Money: Joe Dillard Series No. 6

by Scott Pratt

  “I didn’t know what he’d do. He was raping somebody. Was I just supposed to let him run away so he could rape somebody else?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t know what you should have done, but it doesn’t matter now, does it? You did what you did. You shot him, you told them you shot him, and now you’re going to have to deal with the consequences. Even if you’re eventually found not guilty of murder, you’re going to be in this place for months, maybe a year, probably in solitary confinement. You’re also going to become the focus of a whole bunch of hatred, whether you deserve it or not. You think you killed a man, a rapist, but you also killed a symbol. Even if Raleigh was what you say he was, and believe me, we’re going to have to find a way to prove it and find a way to get it admitted in court, you killed a representative of law and order, a white representative of law and order in a community that is dominated by whites. You’ve committed an act that flies in the face of their entire judicial system, and you’re about to find out how brutal that system can be. If everything is the way you say it is, and if we can get a fair trial in front of an impartial jury, then maybe you can walk away from this, but even if you do, I want you to know you’re going to pay a steep price.”

  Tears welled in his eyes and they took on a luminescent glow.

  “I don’t know you, Mr. Dillard, but I want to ask you a question.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Have you ever been in love?”

  I thought about Caroline and the many years we’d been together, the trials and tribulations, the joy and the pain.

  “Yes, Jordan, I’ve been in love for a long, long time.”

  “That’s what he took from me, and no matter what the judicial system does to me, I don’t think the price could be any steeper.”

  Chapter 4

  CHARLIE Story sat down on the couch in the day room. It was clean, almost sterile, like a lobby in a college dorm, Spartan in its décor and furnishings. The block walls were painted a glossy, pale yellow. The floor was covered with short-napped, indoor-outdoor, brown carpet. She’d been coming to this place every other Sunday since she was old enough to drive.

  A man in a khaki uniform similar to those worn by janitors walked across the room, sat down next to her, and smiled. His hair was dark brown, short, and just starting to gray at the temples. He had green eyes flecked with gold, a high forehead and a sharp, angular face dimpled in the chin.

  “Only a few more trips to the big house,” Charlie’s father, Luke Story, said as he kissed her on the cheek.

  “I know. Finally.”

  “Finally? You mean you won’t miss it?”

  “I’m sure I will,” Charlie said. “I’ll miss the pleasing sights and sounds and the delightful people. Especially the guards. They’re so charming, such wonderful conversationalists.”

  “Yeah, they’ll miss you, too. They start drooling every time you walk through the door.”

  “It’s hard to believe you’re getting out, that it’s almost over.”

  For twenty years, since Charlie was five, her father had been in federal prison. She knew his story well. He was open with her about what he’d done, and she’d read the transcripts from his trial and every newspaper account that was published. Luke had graduated from Cloudland High School in Roan Mountain, Tennessee, in 1967, was drafted in 1968 and sent to Vietnam in February of 1969. He wound up being assigned to the 101st Airborne Division as an infantryman, and in May, ten weeks after he arrived in country, his left arm was nearly blown off just below the elbow by a rocket propelled grenade as he and his fellow soldiers tried to take a hill from the North Vietnamese Army. By September, he was home with a Purple Heart, a useless arm, and more than his share of bitter resentment.

  Luke moved back in with his parents when he returned to Tennessee and invested some of the money from the disability check he received each month into marijuana seed and fertilizer. He started growing weed on his parents’ land the following spring, got busted by the sheriff’s department two years later, and spent a year in the county jail. As soon as he got out, he went back to growing weed, and within three years he’d earned enough to pay cash for his own place, a run-down, hundred-acre farm a couple of miles from his parents. He lived in a breezy old farm house, grew tobacco and corn along with the marijuana, and started a herd of Black Angus beef cattle. By the time he was thirty, he’d learned to bribe the locals, and the marijuana had made him a millionaire. He later took a wife, Ruth Ann, whom he’d met during a trip to the West Virginia mountains to visit one of his old Army buddies who was also in the marijuana business.

  The demand for weed was booming, Luke was conscientious about improving his product, and the money continued to roll in. So he bought another two hundred acres adjacent to his property, completely remodeled the old farm house and the barn, and Ruth Ann started a greenhouse business that quickly became profitable. Five years later, after two miscarriages, Ruth Ann finally gave birth to a daughter. She was conceived during a trip to Charleston, South Carolina, so her parents named her Charleston.

  It was a warm, August morning when the inevitable happened. A small army of federal agents descended on the farm like locusts. Charlie was only four years old, but she remembered the incident vividly. Large men in dark jackets, all carrying guns, broke through the front door just before sunup. Charlie was sitting in a booster chair at the kitchen table. Her father was drinking his coffee across from her. The men screamed at him and threw him to the floor. They did the same to her mother. One of the agents picked Charlie up and carried her outside as though he was rescuing her from a fire. She tried to fight him, but it was useless. He put her in a car with two women who drove her away. Her grandparents picked her up several hours later. She didn’t see her father for almost a year, and she never set foot in that house again.

  Luke Story had intended to get completely out of the marijuana business by then, but he couldn’t resist experimenting with cross-breeding and had planted fifty plants that spring just to see what the yield would be. The agents found them hidden among corn stalks in a field about two hundred yards from the house. They cut down the plants and seized everything in sight. The federal drug laws allowed them to eventually take Luke’s land, his house, his livestock and all of his equipment and vehicles. The agents padlocked the greenhouse business and seized all of the money in every bank account Luke and Ruth Ann owned. They tore the house and the barn apart looking for cash, but found very little. Ruth Ann had never actively participated in the marijuana business, and the agents knew it, but they arrested her and held her in jail until Luke told them where he kept the bulk of his cash. They dug up a fifty-five-gallon oil drum behind the barn containing nearly a million dollars.

  Luke was charged with manufacturing marijuana, conspiracy to distribute marijuana, tax evasion, and, because he had a shotgun in his closet, they added a charge of being a convicted felon in possession of a weapon. He was too stubborn to plead guilty, so he went to trial a year after he was arrested and was convicted. His prior marijuana conviction was used against him at sentencing, as was the weapons charge. The judge added everything up, thanked him for his military service, expressed regret that he’d been wounded in combat, and sentenced him to twenty-five years in prison. The judge also ordered that his disability checks be discontinued. The next day, Charlie’s mother, Ruth Ann, who’d been forced to take Charlie and move in with Luke’s parents, left early in the morning and never came back. No one had seen or heard from her since. Charlie suspected she’d gone back to her native West Virginia, but by the time Charlie was old enough to look for her, she’d lost the desire.

  The federal government had finally eased the sentencing laws regarding non-violent drug offenders, so Luke would be getting out a little earlier than he’d expected. Charlie was looking forward to having her father home. She had some concerns about how well Luke would get along with his brother, Jasper, about how he would adjust to life outside of prison, and about their financial situation, but Charlie
had taught herself to be an optimist. She’d figure it out. She always had. They’d get by somehow.

  “How’s the job hunt going?” Luke asked. “Any prospects?”

  “I’m going to work with Joe Dillard,” Charlie said, knowing what would come next.

  “Dillard! He’s worthless,” Luke said. “He’s the reason I’ve been rotting in this hell hole for more than twenty years.”

  “That isn’t true and you know it. He didn’t grow marijuana and he wasn’t a convicted felon when he got caught growing marijuana. He didn’t bury his money in a barrel and evade paying taxes. You’re the one who did all of those things. I’ve read all the transcripts, daddy. He did the best he could; there just wasn’t much he could do for you. But he’s the best criminal defense lawyer around and everybody knows it. I can learn more from him than any other lawyer in the state. So I don’t want to hear another word out of you about Joe Dillard.”

  Luke scratched his head and contemplated his shoes for a minute. He reached over and punched his daughter lightly on the shoulder.

  “You’ve got a lot of your momma in you, girl,” he said.

  “I’ve got a lot more of my daddy in me, I’m proud to say. I can’t wait until you get out of this place. It’ll be so good to finally have you home.”

  Luke picked up Charlie’s hand and squeezed it.

  “I know you don’t need it,” he said, “but I’m looking forward to finally taking care of my little girl.”

  Chapter 5

  AT 7:30 a.m. on Monday, Jack and I watched through the front door as Charlie Story and our new client, Roscoe Barnes, walked through the parking lot toward the office beneath a threatening, slate-colored sky. Charlie was wearing jeans, an orange, University of Tennessee hoodie and a pair of old-school Converse high-top basketball sneakers. Roscoe was wearing blue denim overalls, a red flannel shirt, and work boots. I was wearing a suit and had insisted that Jack do the same since we were meeting a new client.

  “We’re overdressed,” Jack said.

  I shrugged. “Nothing wrong with a little professionalism,” I said as I reached out and pushed the door open.

  Charlie introduced everyone and we walked back to my conference room. The table was big enough to accommodate six people. Jack and I sat on one side, Charlie and Roscoe on the other. After the introductions, I got down to business.

  “Charlie sent me a copy of the petition your son filed, Mr. Barnes,” I said. “It makes some pretty alarming allegations.”

  “Yeah,” Roscoe said. “It says I’m too crazy to be left alone.”

  “Are you?”

  Roscoe glanced at Charlie and then looked me straight in the eye.

  “I’m no crazier than you or anybody else,” he said. “I might be a little eccentric, but I’m old enough to have earned the right. I get out of bed every morning at the same time, go through pretty much the same routines every day. I feed myself and bathe myself and take care of my place as best I can. I take the medicine the doctors say I should take and I don’t run around naked and howl at the moon.”

  “There’s a sworn affidavit attached to the petition signed by a psychiatrist named Frederic Heinz,” I said. “I checked him out and he has impeccable credentials. He also specializes in treating elderly patients. Tell me about the examination he did.”

  “There wasn’t any examination,” Roscoe said. “Zane showed up unannounced about a month ago and had this man with him that he introduced as his buddy Fred. I didn’t think anything about it other than it was unusual for Zane to come around since I only see him a couple of times a year. I fixed supper for them and they stayed for an hour, maybe an hour-and-a-half, and then they left. Couple of weeks later a sheriff’s deputy knocks on my door and handed me a copy of the petition. Made me mad enough to spit.”

  Roscoe was a retired English teacher. Charlie had been his student at Cloudland High School for two years. They also happened to be neighbors on Buck Mountain and had known each other for most of Charlie’s life. Roscoe was in his mid-seventies, a slight, stooped man with a sharp nose and, I soon found, a tongue to match. I’d done some research over the weekend and learned that the legal process of taking over an elderly person’s life wasn’t all that complicated, but the law made it difficult nonetheless. Tennessee law required that “credible” medical evidence be presented to the court in order to have a person declared mentally incapacitated. That evidence also had to be “clear and convincing,” one of the highest standards in the legal profession.

  “I understand these allegations make you angry,” I said to Roscoe, “but we have to talk about them and we have to file a written answer. So I’m going to ask you some questions and I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t spit on me.”

  “Fire away, counselor,” Roscoe said. “I’ll try to mind my temper.”

  “They allege that you set your house on fire several times in the past year. Is that true?”

  “I get a little absent-minded sometimes and leave a hamburger patty on the stove. I’ve started a couple of grease fires, but they stayed in the pan. I told Zane and Fred about it because I thought it was funny. Didn’t think they’d use it against me to try and have me locked up in the looney bin.”

  “They say you left a dead dog in your bed for three days and your son practically had to get into a fist fight with you to get the dog out of the house.”

  “That happened during Christmas when he came to visit. My old retriever, Dixie, died in her sleep. I loved her dearly and couldn’t bring myself to accept that she was gone. It wasn’t three days; it was a day and a half. And he didn’t have to fight me to get her out of there. I finally wrapped her in a blanket and carried her out by the barn and buried her myself. I may not have done it quickly enough to suit him, but I did it.”

  “They say you talk to yourself sometimes.”

  “Don’t you? Doesn’t everybody?”

  “They say you forget to take your prescribed medications.”

  “Once in a blue moon I forget, but it hasn’t hurt me. He wouldn’t have known that, either, if I hadn’t told him.”

  “They say you served them food that was inedible and that your house is – and I’m quoting here – ‘unfit for human habitation.’”

  “All I can say to that is that they ate the pork chops and the potatoes and the corn and the bread and I didn’t see any gagging or puking going on. The house isn’t as clean as it once was, but I keep it up pretty good. I do the dishes every day and I do the laundry and I vacuum and dust once a week. I even clean out the bath tub and the toilet every ten days or so. It isn’t as spic and span as a military barracks, but it isn’t filthy, either.”

  “Dr. Heinz’s report says you’re ‘disaffected’ and ‘incapable of sustaining a line of thought’ most of the time. Why do you think he would say something like that?”

  “Because that’s what my son paid him to say.”

  I pushed the papers away from me, folded my arms across my chest, and leaned back in my chair.

  “Why, Mr. Barnes?” I said. “Why is your son doing this? I’m not a doctor, but I have to admit you seem fine to me. So I’m having trouble understanding why this is happening.”

  “I can’t tell you,” he said.

  “Can’t or won’t?”

  “Won’t.”

  “Why not? Why won’t you tell me?”

  “You’ll find out soon enough.”

  “I’d rather find out right now, from you, straight from the horse’s mouth. Why is your son trying to have you committed?”

  “He wants something I have, but don’t even bother asking me what it is, because I’m not going to tell you.”

  “It’s difficult for a lawyer to represent a client who won’t be open and honest with him.”

  “But you’ve done it before, haven’t you? Charlie tells me you’ve done a whole bunch of high-profile criminal cases and that you were a prosecutor for a few years. You should be used to people being less than open. I’m not being dishonest
with you, Mr. Dillard. I’m just not going to tell you everything. If you can’t live with that, then I guess Charlie and I will have to find someone else. And like I said a minute ago, you’ll find out soon enough what Zane wants so badly. Or at least Charlie will find out. If she chooses to tell you about it after she finds out, then so be it.”

  “Are we talking about something illegal?”

  “Not illegal. Dangerous, maybe, but not illegal.”

  I looked around the table. Charlie was typing notes into a laptop. Jack was suppressing a smile. I couldn’t imagine what he found amusing, but I knew him well enough to be able to read his facial expressions. Roscoe was sitting ramrod straight in his chair, a look of defiance in his brown eyes.

  “Okay, Mr. Barnes, have it your way,” I said. “But this is what has to happen immediately. We need to get you examined by another psychiatrist and have him write a report that we’ll submit to the judge. Once that’s done, the judge will appoint a lawyer of his choosing to act as a guardian ad litem. It’s required in all conservatorship cases in Tennessee. The guardian ad litem is supposed to be neutral. He or she will talk to all the witnesses and will probably request an independent psychiatric examination. Then the guardian will submit a report to the judge and make recommendations. The judge doesn’t have to follow the recommendations, but from what I’ve been able to gather, the judge usually does what the guardian recommends. You’ll have to pay for the psychiatrist we use, but the court will pay for the guardian and any examinations the guardian requests. Do you have a psychiatrist in mind? Someone you know and trust?”

  “I don’t know any psychiatrists,” Roscoe said. “Never talked to one in my life outside of that nimrod that Zane brought to the house.”

  “Then Charlie will find one for you. It’ll probably cost you between three and five thousand dollars. Can you afford that?”

  “Will my health insurance cover it?”

  “If it was a routine exam, I suppose it would,” I said, “but this isn’t routine. We’re hiring an expert and we want him to be on our side. Money talks, Mr. Barnes, as much as I hate to say it. It’s just the way the system works.”