“You’re just sore because of that stuff she said about your dad. The recoil from firing a 9mm pistol would’ve slammed her back into the wall and knocked her out. Not to mention her being too drunk to shoot straight. And what did she do with the gun?”
“She’s stronger than she appears, but you raise a good question. Where did the gun go?”
8
Open to the public for a month now, the judicial building still retains that new-building smell of fresh carpet and paint. You would never suspect that a murder occurred here.
The Supreme Court sits on the fifth floor. Scott and I exit an elevator that opens out to an expansive landing area a little larger than a tennis court. An indoor balcony runs the full length of one side of the space, adding to the cavernous feel. I look down over the balcony and spy the Georgia motto spelled out on the ground floor entrance below—Wisdom, Justice, Moderation. Sounds nice in theory.
Turning around from the balcony, I see ornate double doors leading to a large, state-of-the-art courtroom. We enter and take the measure of the place. Nine imposing black chairs sit on a dais across the way—a healthy separation between those who wear the robes and those who don’t.
We walk through the courtroom, go through a back door behind the chairs where the justices sit, and emerge on a back hallway closed to the public. I study the map in my hand. Two other hallways connect with this back one to form a semi-circle—kind of like a horseshoe—around the outer ring of the courtroom. Jackson’s office suite is on the right hallway. We turn right and head that way.
Before the back hall ends, we pass the conference room where the justices congregate to discuss their cases—the same place where Beverly told us that she killed time on the night of the murder. A few strides away, around the corner to the hallway right of the courtroom, we find the door to the crime scene—the chambers of Chief Justice Warren Jackson.
Yellow crime tape forbids entry to the door of Jackson’s suite. Scott inserts a key and wrestles with the knob before it gives way. We thread ourselves through the crime tape and enter.
Five rooms comprise the chambers. An anti-septic reception area features a desk for an administrative assistant. Two smaller offices belong to Jackson’s law clerks. A meeting room with a kitchenette and television is off the reception area. Jackson’s own office, a large corner room with floor to ceiling windows on two sides, completes the suite.
Dried blood splatter decorates Jackson’s chair, the surrounding floor, and part of the antique desk that dominates the space. The desk is stately and must be worth a fortune. From his chair behind it, Jackson would’ve had a prime view of the State Capitol. I wonder if he ever thought of my father as he contemplated his journey to becoming Chief Justice. Doubtful. Time can rationalize away much of the past. Maybe he even forgot. Or maybe he never cared much about what he did in the first place.
Scott lays out the crime scene photographs. Jackson died in his chair with his robe on, which is an interesting way to go. Bizarrely, he wore nothing else but an undershirt, boxer shorts, and dress socks. A business suit still hangs neatly on a hook in a corner. A pair of shoes rests nearby on the floor.
I ask, “Why is he almost naked?”
“I always wondered what judges wore beneath their robes.”
“Pretty sure that’s not standard attire.”
Cecil told us that the murderer fired the shots while standing from a range of ten feet away. Based on the layout of the furniture and the dimensions of the room, the killer stood just beyond two wingback chairs situated in front of Jackson’s desk. Scott measures out ten feet—not a gimme shot under pressure, but hardly impossible, either. The boldness of the act, though, astounds. Walk into the Chief Justice’s chambers, unload two deadly rounds, walk back out—all without being observed.
Who would have that kind of nerve and skill? My mind leaps to Jerry Dalton—Navy SEAL.
I note, “Strange no one heard a shot.”
“Walls are kinda thick. Corner office would diffuse much of the sound. Maybe the perp used a suppresser.”
“Why don’t I go out into the hall and you fire your gun as a test?”
“I’ll shout instead.”
I return to the hall and close the door behind me. After a minute of waiting, I find myself stuck outside Jackson’s chambers, owing to a failure to unlock the door on the way out.
Scott opens the door and asks, “Hear anything?”
“Nothing. You were loud?”
“Pretty loud but not as a loud as a gunshot. We can re-test with a blank gun sometime. That should tell us.”
I inspect the hall corridor and observe, “Looks like the murderer only had two ways to get to Jackson’s chambers, either from the direction we just came or through that door at the end of this hallway.”
“Don’t forget the stairs.”
“Doubtful if the building was otherwise empty.”
According to the map, only one other justice has his chambers on this hallway—Justice Adam Lumpkin, right next door from where we now stand. On the other side of Lumpkin’s suite are a law library and a staircase to the lower levels of the building. We walk down the hallway, open the door at the end of it, and find ourselves back on the landing, near the elevators that brought us to the floor a few minutes ago.
Scott says, “Should be plenty of witnesses if the murderer used this door.”
“I’m not holding my breath.”
***
The next couple of hours are tedious. We search Jackson’s office, starting with the desk—drawer by drawer, sheet of paper by sheet of paper. We inspect the floor, under the cushions in the couch, behind the books on the shelves, everything. All for nothing—not one single piece of possible evidence. Based on this room at least, the Chief Justice was little more than a boring jurist.
We sit in the wingback chairs and take a break. I complain, “Well, that was fun.”
“That’s police work for you—99% of the job is tedious with no payoff for hours of labor. You should stick to lawyering.”
“Yeah, because being an attorney is living atop the Big Rock Candy Mountain.”
Cops and lawyers have among the highest rates of suicides and substance abuse in the country. This world is what I was trying to escape when Minton wrangled me back to do his bidding. A flash of resentment sparks at his strongarm tactics to get me to capitulate. I check my phone for messages to cool down. I made my choice. Without warning, Scott leaps onto to his feet and heads straight to the built-in bookcase.
“What?”
“Something’s off with one of the books.”
He takes down a volume titled Georgia Trusts and Wills by Michael B. Kent from the shelf and opens it to reveal a hollowed-out center containing a single, compact flash drive. I commend him.
“Good eye. Things just got a little more interesting.”
Scott bags the flash drive. We can’t do anything with it until technicians dust for prints. In the meantime, talking to Kenny Cummings is next on the agenda.
9
The first thing I think about when I lay eyes upon Kenny Cummings is the aptness of Beverly’s description of him: “He should sell insurance or something.” Based on appearances alone, I sort of have to agree with her. He doesn’t look like a cop. His bearing exudes the friendly manner of a salesman—the non-pushy, like-a-good-neighbor kind. He tells us to call him Kenny.
His office is on the ground level in a suite with other officers of the Georgia State Patrol assigned to guard the courthouse. The room is in the interior of the building, devoid of natural light. He directs us to two functional chairs, a far cry from Jackson’s decadent wingbacks on the top floor.
I start, “What were your responsibilities regarding Warren Jackson?”
“Essentially I was his personal bodyguard for the past five years. Picked him up in the morning and dropped him off at home at night. Out in public, I would stay near him, show the world the badge and all that. In the courthouse, things were a little dif
ferent. The building opened a month ago, and he would be on the fifth floor all day, usually in his office. I’d hang out here until he was ready to go somewhere. The night of the party, I treated it like a normal courthouse day and not like if we had been out in public. I shouldn’t have let my guard down.”
“You were down here during the reception?”
“No, I was up there on the fifth floor. Just wasn’t in a security-conscious frame of mind.”
“We heard Beverly Jackson gave you a tough time about that the night of the murder.”
Shame flushes his face, and he takes his time before responding.
“Yes, sir. She did. But she was right to do so. My only job was to protect the Chief, and he got shot under my watch. I failed.”
The judgment hangs heavy on him like a guilty verdict, and he avoids meeting our eyes. I give him a few moments to regain his wits.
“You obviously spent a lot of time with Warren Jackson. What was he like?”
“The Chief was a good man and always treated me with respect. I served in the army before joining the State Patrol. That appealed to him. He had a deep respect for the uniform. When he stayed at his lake house, he allowed my family to stay in a smaller house on the property. Most of the other justices would’ve made me stay in a nearby hotel by myself. Not the Chief. We fished together, too. I think he liked my company. He and Mrs. Jackson didn’t get along.”
The sense of loss on his face is real. Minton and Beverly have prejudiced me so much against Warren Jackson that I’m a bit stunned to come across somebody who didn’t hate him. Especially someone in Kenny’s position. A lot of powerful people can barely disguise their contempt for the common folk, and I find it surprising that Jackson would develop such a close bond with the state trooper assigned to guard him. But most times in life the simplest explanations do the job. Maybe Jackson just liked to fish. Or maybe being around a nice guy like Kenny every day grows on you after five years. I put the issue to him.
“I don’t want to speak ill of the dead, but my sense from talking to other people is that the Chief Justice wasn’t well-liked.”
The comment is not to his liking. He shakes his head in stark disapproval.
“I can’t speak to all that. He served in public office his whole life and made enemies, sure. And politics can get rough. He probably did hurt some feelings and stepped on some toes. That’s the nature of the beast. But he was always good to me. When my daughter was murdered last spring, the Chief was amazing. During the darkest days of my life, he stood by my side, helped with the arrangements, even gave the eulogy. I’ll never forget that. I don’t give a damn about what other people say about the man. He was good people.”
He bites back hard on the urge to cry and fails as a single tear descends in a meandering path down his right cheek. We allow him his grief. A picture of his family sits proudly on his desk—a wife, two younger sons, an older daughter. The photograph next to it features the girl in high school graduation cap and gown. She was pretty. A happy shot of Warren Jackson and Kenny in fishing gear completes the tableau.
He apologizes, “Sorry, guys. Still doesn’t seem real. Go ahead and ask your questions. I want to do what I can to help you.”
Scott looks to me for guidance, and I nod.
He asks, “Can you take us through everything you remember about the night of the murder?”
“Sure. I picked the Chief up that morning, and he spent the entire day at the courthouse working. He was always a hard worker. Around five in the afternoon, he sent me to fetch Mrs. Jackson to bring her to the party. She and I hit some traffic, and it was ten minutes past six by the time we arrived in chambers. The Attorney General, GBI Director, and a heavyset man were leaving the Chief’s office as we went in. The Chief told me to bring Senator Parsons around when he arrived in the building and to unlock the door to the office suite for the Senator. I waited on the landing as a lookout and took Parsons to the Chief around six-thirty. Mrs. Jackson and I then left the two of them alone. That was the last time I saw the Chief alive.”
“What did you do after that?”
“Mostly hung out on the landing, next to the hall door that leads to the law library and the chambers for the Chief and Justice Lumpkin.”
“You were guarding the door?”
“Kind of. My job at these types of events is to stay in the vicinity of the Chief, let myself be seen, but always staying the hell out of the way. So that’s what I was doing—staying out of the way.”
“Anybody on the landing with you?”
“A bunch of people. The catering crew, including the bartender. A group of justices and their spouses were sitting at a table—Harrison Jenkins and his wife, Lynda Stockton and her husband, Matt Cordell, Vernon Milan and his wife, and Al Wong. Larry Miller—that’s the Clerk of Court—he was running to and fro in all directions trying to get things set up. The Chief, the Governor, and Senator Parsons were supposed to deliver short speeches before dinner.”
“Any of the people hanging around the landing leave at some point?”
“Not that I noticed—except for Larry. Like I said, he was running around everywhere, went into the courtroom a few times I seem to remember. But the justices and their spouses were all sitting around a table, talking, having a good time.”
If Kenny is right that the group mingling outside the courtroom stayed together the whole time, then eight of the twenty-five possible killers at the party immediately come off the board as suspects. But Kenny’s account only pinpoints the location of five of the nine justices. I jump in to inquire about the rest.
“Chief Justice Jackson was in his chambers. What about the other justices? Where were Susan Benson, Aurora Winnett, and Adam Lumpkin?”
“I don’t know.”
Scott follows up, “Did you see anyone else on the landing at any point?”
“The heavyset guy I’d seen earlier with the Daltons came over from the courtroom and asked the location of the restroom, which was behind me next to the elevator. That was earlier in the evening, before I took Senator Parsons to the Chief.”
“You don’t know this person’s name?”
“No, sir.”
“Can you describe him any further?”
Kenny makes a go of it.
“Balding, lumbering walk, clothes were crumpled. On the short side. He was sweaty, which was odd because the air in the building felt on the cool side.”
No doubt that he’s talking about Gene Davis.
Scott asks, “See anyone else?”
“Later, maybe around seven, Senator Parsons came out from the hall door opposite my post on the other side of the courtroom, got a drink, and talked to the justices for a bit.”
The timeline starts to clarify. The Senator went into Jackson’s chambers at six-thirty and a little over thirty minutes later was getting a drink at the bar.
“How did you learn about the Chief’s murder?”
“I was walking along the balcony on the fifth floor to stretch my legs and ended up near the bartender. We talked a bit, and then I heard a noise—a commotion or something. Couldn’t really place it. Some type of instinct started me walking back toward the Chief’s chambers. A few seconds later, Larry Miller ran out the door from that hallway and said that the Chief had been shot. I sprinted to the chambers and saw it for myself. I mean—”
He doesn’t finish the thought. The memory of the event replays itself on his ruddy face—the effect of which is a further physical withdrawal into himself.
Scott asks, “What time was that?”
“Around seven-thirty.”
“Any ideas who might’ve wanted the Chief Justice dead?”
“Not a clue.”
“No death threats or anything?”
“Nah, maybe a random letter in the mail once a month. Par for the course. Nothing recent.”
Scott glances at me to see if I have any more questions, and I shake my head. Before we exit, though, one final thought pops into my mind. I ask, “
Did Mrs. Jackson have a purse when you picked her up?”
“I think so.”
“How big?”
The relevance of the question confuses him. He stares at the ceiling, thinking, trying to recapture a memory that no doubt seemed quite insignificant to him in real time.
“Pretty large, I believe. Some type of dark color. Don’t remember her ever carrying a small purse. Always the larger type of handbags. I think she keeps miniature liquor bottles in there.”
The comment would be a joke out of most other lips, but Kenny’s earnestness indicates that he is telling the God’s honest truth.
And that truth doesn’t help Beverly. A large handbag. Big enough to hold a 9mm.
10
Kenny shows us out, and Scott bounds down the hall. I linger and draw Kenny to the side.
“I’m sorry about your daughter.”
The grimness of his nod is chock full of sadness. He says, “Thank you for that. I figured you would understand more than most. The Chief and I discussed it when your family got killed. He said he knew your father in the legislature and that your father was an honorable man. I didn’t know you from Adam, but I felt your pain and followed the case in the paper. Never dreamed that I would have to go through something similar with Allie—the nightmare that keeps on going, even when I’m wide awake.”
Pretty much. Jackson’s words about my father glance off me, and I instead remember my precious Cale. Burying a child is a shotgun blast to the soul. All of us who have endured that hell share a tear-stained bond that no one outside the circle can ever fully feel. But there’s a special subset of that terrible club where the pain imparts an even greater rip into your innards—the parents of murdered children. Knowing that some evil monster chose to snuff the life out of your child is a malignant cancer that makes you physically and emotionally sick.
Kenny goes on, “You lost your wife, too. I can’t imagine. How do you manage?”
That’s the question, isn’t it? I’ve taken to reading my Bible every day, trying to let the Holy Spirit mold me into a man like Jesus. Except old habits stick as though they were caked in mud. I’ve always been more of an Old Testament kind of guy, an eye for an eye and all that. The Psalms speak about the righteous bathing their feet in the blood of the wicked. A man can dream. But no one is righteous, and all of us need grace. I try to give Kenny a meaningful answer to what remains the core struggle of my life.
Death to the Chief (Atlanta Murder Squad Book 2) Page 5
