by Scott Pratt
“Not very often. Occasionally, I guess.”
“Good. Meet me at The Purple Pig at seven o’clock tonight. I want to buy you one.”
Chapter 11
THE Purple Pig was a honky-tonk sort of place in Johnson City, about a mile from the East Tennessee State University campus. Good bar food, cold beer, a jukebox and reasonable prices, karaoke on Friday nights. The same people telling the same stories at the bar night after night. It was like an old friend, one that’s dependable and never seems to change.
Charlie showed up right on time. Jack and I were sitting in a booth near the jukebox. We’d already ordered a beer and were talking baseball when she walked in. I noticed several heads turn at the bar as she passed by.
I’d asked Jack to come along for a couple of reasons. First, I wasn’t really comfortable meeting a beautiful, young woman at a bar, and second, I thought it might give them a chance to get to know each other a little better. Jack had ribbed me about playing matchmaker on the ride into town, but he didn’t say anything about not wanting to go.
The encounter between Charlie and Nathaniel Mitchell had jostled some kind of toggle inside me that caused me to want to find out what was driving her, what she wanted out of life, what she thought about the world and the people around her. Part of it was just curiosity, but there was also a more serious element. At some level, I knew I was sizing her up, taking stock of whether I thought she might make a suitable companion for my son.
Charlie ordered a Coors Light and I told Jack about our visit to Nathaniel Mitchell’s office.
“She called him a prostitute,” I said. “You should have seen the look on his face. If he’d had a gun and been able to get away with it, he would have shot her dead on the spot.”
“I apologize for that,” Charlie said. “I’ve thought about it all day and I’m really sorry. I should’ve kept my mouth shut. All I did was make things worse for Roscoe.”
“He wasn’t going to give us anything anyway,” I said. “He bills by the hour. The longer the case runs, the more money he makes. He might be a little more inclined to be nasty from now on, be a little more difficult to deal with, but the bottom line hasn’t really changed. In the end the decision about Roscoe will be made by a jury.”
“Do you really think it will go that far?” Charlie said. “You don’t think the judge will dismiss it?”
“I’ve been doing this for a long time, Charlie, and I can tell you one thing that is certain in the practice of law. You never know what a judge will do.”
“You don’t care for judges much, do you?” she said.
“Nah, don’t trust them. Just the fact that someone would want to be a judge is a character flaw as far as I’m concerned. Most of them are just educated bullies. So what about you, Charlie? We haven’t really gotten into why you wanted to get into law and what you plan to do once you pass the bar.”
“She’s an idealist,” Jack said. “Same as me. Same as you, too, without the cynicism. She’s going to do criminal defense and civil rights cases.”
I turned and looked at him, raised an eyebrow. “And you’re basing that opinion on?”
He looked over at Charlie and winked. “We’ve talked a few times,” he said.
“Really? At the office? On the phone?”
“We’ve texted some.”
“We had dinner together a couple of nights ago,” Charlie said.
“Is that right?” I said. “So you guys are dating already?”
Jack cleared his throat and sat up a little straighter.
“Not dating. That isn’t the way it works these days. We’re still in what you’d call the talking phase.”
“She just said you went to dinner. Wasn’t that a date?”
“Not really,” Jack said. “It was more like getting to know each other in a social setting, you know?”
“That’s a date.”
“No, it isn’t. I guess it used to be a date, but not anymore. The whole… I don’t know, I guess you’d call it protocol, of dating has changed. First you talk, then you date, then you agree to be exclusive, then you become boyfriend and girlfriend, and then you’re in a relationship.”
“Ah, I get it,” I said. “It isn’t really official until it’s announced on Facebook.”
“Exactly,” Jack said. “If it ain’t on Facebook, it ain’t legit.”
“So is that where you guys are heading? Toward an official Facebook proclamation?”
Jack shrugged his shoulders and looked at Charlie. She was smiling back at him, but I could tell I’d managed to make both of them uncomfortable.
“Charlie?” I said. “Is that what’s going on here? Do you intend to make my son your exclusive boyfriend and announce it to the world on Facebook?”
She took a sip of her beer and set the bottle back down on the table. The waitress had brought her a glass, but she wasn’t using it, which reminded me of Caroline. No glass for her, either. I liked that.
“We’ll just have to wait and see,” Charlie said.
I cut them some slack after that, and we spent the next hour talking about law and judges and Roscoe Barnes. Charlie was a delightful mix of intellect, beauty and country common sense. I kept thinking about how much she reminded me of my wife. I even found myself thinking at one point in the conversation that the two of them would make beautiful babies together. My next thought was, “Damn, Joe, you’re getting old and soft.”
Jack and I drank two beers, Charlie one, and we shared a pizza. I went to the bathroom, and when I came back, Jack had moved to the other side of the booth.
“We better head out of here,” I said. “Another beer and my blood alcohol count will probably be over the legal limit. You ready, Jack?”
“I think we’re going to catch a movie,” he said. “Charlie says she’ll drop me off at the house later.”
“Another date that isn’t a date?”
“Something like that.”
The check was sitting on the table. I picked it up and said, “I’ll take care of this and the tip. You kids have a nice night.” I walked out of the bar and was getting into my truck when Jack came jogging up.
“Hey, dad. You’re not mad, are you?” he said.
“Mad? Why should I be mad?”
“I didn’t mean to spring all this with Charlie on you. I probably should have told you on the ride in.”
“You’re a big boy, Jack. You can date whoever you want.”
“We’re not officially dating, but I’m glad you’re not mad.”
I reached into my pocket and pulled out my wallet. “You need money?” I said.
“Nah, dad, I’m good.”
“You sure? Movies are expensive.”
“I’m sure.” He reached out and gave me a hug. “I love you, man,” he said. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Chapter 12
SHERIFF Leon Bates pulled into my driveway the next morning at precisely seven o’clock. I’d called Leon the day before and asked him to come out and have a cup of coffee. Leon was an immensely popular and effective sheriff as well as being a consummate politician. We’d become close friends during my short tenure at the district attorney’s office. We’d gone through one particularly rough patch, but had renewed our friendship during a search for a young girl who had been kidnapped the previous year. Leon had helped me find and recover the girl and had gotten himself shot in the process. His wounds had healed quickly, however, and he’d climbed right back into the saddle.
We went through the ritual of allowing Rio, my German shepherd, to sniff Leon at the door. Nobody came through that door without the dog’s approval, and anyone who came to the house regularly knew the routine. Leon’s khaki uniform was draped over his gangly frame, and he was carrying his cowboy hat in his hand. He walked through the kitchen and sat down at the table while I poured two cups of black coffee.
“Where’s the missus?” he said as I handed him a cup.
“She sleeps later than she used to,” I said.
“Yeah, she’s okay. Bad day every now and then because of side effects from medication, but for the most part, she’s doing really well right now.”
“Glad to hear it,” Leon said. “So what can I do for you, brother Dillard?”
I sat down across from him and took a sip of the coffee.
“I’m sure you heard about the shooting over in Kingsport. Jordan Scott? Killed the rapist?”
“Course I’ve heard about it. I read in the paper that you were representing him. Surprised me a little, to tell you the truth. I thought you were cutting back, what with your wife’s illness and all.”
“She insisted that I take it.”
“You’re in for a hard road, brother. That’s a rough bunch over there.”
“That’s why I called you. What do you know about them?”
“Probably more than I should. Certainly more than I’d like to. This deputy that was shot, Todd Raleigh. You know who his daddy is?”
“I know his name is Howard Raleigh and that he’s a county commissioner. That’s about it.”
“He’s a real peach, that one,” Leon said. “Comes across as a community leader type and an entrepreneur, owns several businesses in the county, convenience stores and a car wash and a couple of used car lots, but that’s mainly how he launders his real source of income, which is cock fighting. Owns a big farm in a remote part of the county, been fighting and breeding roosters there for almost twenty years. Big operation, big money.”
“Let me guess,” I said. “The reason he’s been able to operate for so long is that the sheriff is in his pocket.”
“Owns him lock, stock and barrel. Back about ten years ago, a few years before I became sheriff over here, they had a sheriff in Sullivan County named Rufus Seale. Big ol’ beer-bellied, red-headed man who liked to beat on inmates at the jail and always had a half-chewed stogie in his mouth. Got himself elected on an old school law and order platform, but everybody that knows about such things knew that he was taking graft from Howard Raleigh to protect his bird fighting operation. The problem with Rufus was that he got arrogant about it. I’ve heard it told more than once that Rufus started showing up at the cockfights, in uniform, and passing his hat. He’d walk out of there with three, four thousand in cash, which didn’t sit too well with Howard Raleigh since Howard was already paying him a tidy sum of cash every month. About three months after Rufus started showing up and passing his hat, he went deer hunting up in Johnson County and wound up getting shot through the heart. It was eventually ruled a hunting accident.”
“But you don’t think it was an accident?”
“Howard Raleigh either shot him or had him shot,” Leon said. “I’d bet my life on it. Enter Raymond Peale, a roofing contractor with no previous law enforcement experience. Howard Raleigh nominates Peale to replace Rufus Seale at the next county commission meeting, and lo and behold, he has the votes to get ‘er done. So Peale becomes Raleigh’s hand-picked sheriff, Raleigh’s son winds up becoming a deputy, and the rooster fighting continues on unmolested by the evil hand of law enforcement.”
“What about the feds?” I said. “If you know all of this, surely they must know it, too. Why haven’t they gone in and busted it up?”
“Because they’ve been focused on counter-terrorism for the past ten years. A cockfighting operation in rural Tennessee hasn’t been at the top of their priority list. But just between you and me and that German shepherd, they’re on it now. Peale and one or two of his deputies have taken to selling drugs that they steal from the evidence locker and there’s been some cash from drug busts go missing. There’ll be an arrest or two sometime in the not-too-distant future.”
“And you know all this how?”
“Because I’m a friend to all, brother Dillard. I get along with everybody, and it serves me well.”
“I need someone on the inside at the sheriff’s department over there,” I said. “If this Todd Raleigh that Jordan Scott killed really was a serial rapist, then I’m betting he had some problems at work. A rapist with a badge and a gun can’t be a good combination. My guess is that there have been complaints filed against him for misconduct. I’d love to get my hands on them, because if I can sucker the prosecution into putting on testimony about his character, then I can attack him and flip the focus of the trial from Jordan Scott to Todd Raleigh. Do you think you might be able to help me out with that?”
Leon reached up and started pulling at his ear lobe with his left hand. With his right, he took another sip from the coffee cup and set the cup back on the table.
“Let me just stew on this a second,” he said. “What you’re asking me to do is to help you gather information that will eventually lead to the character assassination in a public trail of a fellow law enforcement officer who recently had half his head blown off.”
“While he was committing a rape. That’s an important detail, don’t you think?”
“You’re positive he was a rapist?”
“I’ve already talked to the young woman he was raping in the park when Jordan shot him. She’s the daughter of one of Raleigh’s best friends, an old high school buddy. Raleigh had been at her house the night before. That’s how he knew she would be in the park early the next morning. He knocked her off of her bike, dragged her into the bushes, and was raping her when Jordan told him to get off of her and then shot him. So yeah, I’m sure. I’m hoping to get DNA samples from Raleigh and have them compared to samples that were taken from some of the other rape victims so I can prove he was a serial rapist, but I’m not too optimistic about it. My understanding is that Raleigh was cremated. The pathologist should have samples from the autopsy, but I doubt the judge will allow me to test them.”
“There ain’t gonna be any samples,” Leon said. “If Todd Raleigh was a serial rapist, Peale and Raleigh’s daddy will have destroyed the samples by now.”
“Sounds like a fine, upstanding bunch of folks they’ve got running the show over there,” I said.
Leon pointed a long finger at me. “You listen to me, brother Dillard,” he said. “I know when you set your mind to something you ain’t afraid of the devil himself, but you be careful messing with those boys. Sticking your nose in the middle of their business will be like crawling under a rock to catch a rattlesnake with your bare hands. The chances are good that you’ll wind up getting bit.”
Chapter 13
ZANE Barnes entered his father’s house quietly through the kitchen door. It was just after dark, the night outside quiet and still. He could hear the television in the den where he knew Roscoe would be sitting in his recliner, either sleeping or watching the Atlanta Braves play baseball.
Zane had been a millionaire until the recession and the credit crunch started bleeding him dry. He’d been building upscale houses in the western North Carolina mountains for years, but when the economy went suddenly and unexpectedly into the toilet, he was unprepared for the fallout. He had four houses under construction when George Bush announced, near the end of his term, that the federal government was about to embark on a massive bailout of the Wall Street financial industry. The credit crunch that ensued shut down the real estate market. All four houses were still vacant. Building them had cost him nearly two million, and he’d been paying interest on that money for so long now that even if the economy turned around and he was finally able to sell them, he wouldn’t turn a profit. His stock portfolio lost sixty percent over a six-month period in 2008 and still hadn’t recovered. His gold-digging wife had taken his two teenaged children and left him a year ago when she realized how much trouble he was in. Between the alimony, child support and mortgage payments, he was paying out more than thirty thousand a month and nothing was coming in. Another year and he’d be broke.
But back in January, Zane had discovered, completely by accident, what he hoped would be his ticket out of the financial morass. He’d gone to Buck Mountain hoping to talk to Roscoe about borrowing some money, although he w
asn’t sure how much money Roscoe had. Zane rarely saw the old man, despite the fact that he lived less than an hour away. He’d never cared much for his father. He thought Roscoe a simpleton, a lazy redneck content to squat on the land he’d inherited and waste his life teaching English to teenagers who didn’t give a damn. Since his mother had died, Zane had made only perfunctory visits at Christmas, and those had been brief.
He was desperate, though, and he thought he might be able to use Roscoe to get him past his financial woes if he could talk him into either selling his land or, at the very least, pledging it as collateral so Zane could borrow enough money to get him through another year or so until the economy made a complete recovery. Roscoe’s land was also home to large stands of valuable trees: white and red oak, hickory, walnut and elm. The timber rights alone would probably be worth a hundred grand. Maybe he could talk him into selling the timber. He’d walked into his father’s house that day and found him fully clothed and fast asleep in his bed. When he reached down to wake him, Zane noticed a glow, almost a sparkle, coming from beneath the pillow where his mother’s head used to lay. He pulled the pillow up and his jaw dropped. He shook his father awake.
“What’s this?” Zane had demanded.
Roscoe, bleary-eyed and groggy, sat up slowly. “What are you doing here?”
“I said what’s this?”
“Something I found.”
“Where?”
“At the end of the rainbow.”
“Is there more?”
“None of your business.”
Zane had grabbed Roscoe’s shirt and shaken him: “Is there more?”
The old man smiled and nodded: “Lots more.”
“How much?”
“You’ll never know.”
“Where is it?”
“I already told you, at the end of the rainbow.”
Zane had threatened, harangued, pleaded, and begged, all to no avail. Roscoe refused to tell him anything. He finally left and devised a plan the next day to gain control of Roscoe’s property. The lawsuit that followed, however, had done nothing but cost Zane more money. Even the possibility of losing his freedom had failed to loosen Roscoe’s tongue. And now, with the first hearing in front of Judge Beckett only twelve hours away, Zane had decided to make one final attempt. He walked into the den. Roscoe was exactly where he thought he’d be – in the recliner. He was wide awake.
