Death to the Chief (Atlanta Murder Squad Book 2)

by Lance McMillian

  “Beverly also told me that your husband, Gary, was steaming mad about the affair, too. Care to confirm or deny?”

  She seethes, “Have you ever heard of separation of powers?”

  “A long time ago, in a land far away.”

  “You’re overstepping your bounds. I’m a justice on the highest court of this state. I rule over the judicial branch. You’re the Governor’s attack dog and have no business walking around my courthouse like you own the place.”

  “I’m investigating your lover’s murder.”

  “Get the hell out of my office! Now!”

  “You’re making a mistake.”

  “Out!”

  That escalated quickly. In the reception area, Winnett’s assistant measures me with a worrisome air that indicates she might later bear the brunt of my sins. I conjure up a smile for her and whisper, “Is she always like this?” The assistant laughs a noiseless laugh and nods.

  ***

  The interviews with Justices Jenkins, Stockton, Cordell, Milan, and Wong go according to script. All confirm that they were together on the landing socializing at the time of the murder. No one at the table left the area at any point. And none of them can conceive of any reason why someone would want the Chief Justice dead. Scott is interviewing the spouses of Jenkins, Stockton, and Milan today, but I expect more of the same.

  ***

  Unlike the other justices, Adam Lumpkin declined to meet with me today, claiming he was too busy. He promised we would talk later in the week. I intend to hold him to that. Larry Miller’s invocation of Lumpkin as a suspect—however reluctant—is telling. Little chance the cautious Miller would dare go out on that limb unless the hostility between Jackson and Lumpkin was real. When I asked the other justices about any tension between the two, all of them refused to talk about a colleague. But their body language confirmed Miller’s information all the same.

  Lumpkin’s proximity next door to the crime scene is another material fact. The lack of traffic on the right hallway offered Lumpkin the perfect opportunity to commit the crime, and his whereabouts for the earlier part of the evening remain a black box. The caterers said that Lumpkin and Senator Parsons left the landing together, a detail confirmed by the other justices in the vicinity. But that was well after seven, and Jackson could’ve easily been dead by that point. In an investigation where no obvious suspect leaps to the top of the page, Justice Adam Lumpkin has a lot of questions to answer.

  Except all that will have to wait until I interrogate him face-to-face. Before that happens, I’m scheduled to sit down with Susan Benson in my last meeting of the day.

  I don’t look forward to it.

  ***

  Before I visit with Benson, Scott calls me from the road to give me the particulars of his interview with Gary Winnett. After my morning confrontation with Aurora Winnett, expectations are low.

  I ask, “He talked to you?”

  “Couldn’t shut him up. Why do you ask?”

  “The wife is a former criminal defense attorney and refused to answer any questions. Quite emphatically, I might add. Accused me of being a cop. It wasn’t a compliment.”

  Scott grunts. He dislikes defense lawyers as much as Aurora Winnett dislikes the police.

  “Well, I don’t think the husband likes cops, either. The difference is that he needed—since he’s a college professor and all—to show me how smart he is.”

  “The perfect witness.”

  “Indeed.”

  Gary’s story about the night of the murder is that he and Aurora were in her chambers but not together. She worked in her office while he camped out in the kitchenette doing his own thing. They remained in place for over an hour until news of the murder spread throughout the floor. Before learning about Jackson’s death, neither husband nor wife left the chambers at any point.

  I note, “But they wouldn’t be able to see each other from different rooms. Either of them could’ve left through the reception area without the other knowing it.”

  “He claims he would’ve heard her had she left and is cocky enough to believe that him saying so settles the matter.”

  As alibis go, it is pretty weak stuff. Aurora Winnett’s suite is on the back hallway behind the courtroom, a short distance to the murder scene. Based on the interviews so far, foot traffic in the area was minimal that night. Either Aurora or Gary could’ve walked around the corner to Jackson’s office, committed the crime, and returned without much risk of detection. The only obstacle would’ve been the open door to the conference room where a drunk Beverly sat doing Lord knows what.

  Gary’s eagerness to give both himself and his wife a mutual alibi might be a move of self-preservation. Aurora made no similar claim. Beverly already told us that Gary was mad as hell about Aurora and Jackson, going so far as to call her up to bitch about it. Could be he had reached his limit.

  “What did he say about his wife’s affair?”

  “He didn’t like that I knew about it. Knocked him off his pedestal a bit. But he insisted that the relationship between Mrs. Winnett and Jackson ended two years ago. He said, and I quote, ‘I put my foot down and that put a stop to it.’ End quote.”

  I laugh out loud. Based on Aurora’s aggressive demeanor with me this morning and Gary sulking by her side at Jackson’s funeral, the notion that he successfully demanded anything of her strikes me as farcical. But every relationship has its own dynamic.

  Scott continues, “Funny, isn’t it? It gets better. I told him that we have evidence that the affair was going on as recently as last winter and that his wife texted Jackson that she missed him a mere two weeks ago. He sat there with his cheeks on fire before saying, ‘That’s impossible.’ I punched back, ‘Why would that be impossible?’ He didn’t have an answer for that. I then whipped up the flames some more and said, ‘How did it make you feel to learn that your wife was having sex with someone damn near seventy?’”

  “How did that go over?”

  “If looks could kill, I’d be dead. He stammered that all marriages have struggles, but he and his wife have long gotten over that rough patch. He then told me to leave.”

  I work the puzzle in my head and say, “Gary thinks the affair is long over. Aurora texts Jackson two weeks ago wanting to rekindle something with him. Gary finds out. Gary kills Jackson?”

  “It fits. Bringing the gun with him to the party would be a bold move, but he’s arrogant enough to think that the rules don’t apply to him. Gary remains a person of interest in my book.”

  “Her, too.”

  “Agreed. Wanna grab some dinner later?”

  “Not tonight. I have a date.”

  A long silence follows. Yesterday at my brother’s house, Cate and I agreed to go out without our families being in the mix—my first proper date since before I was married, a fact that Scott well knows. At last, he speaks.

  “With a woman?”

  I provide him the backstory. Just talking about it gets my nerves jumpy—the prospect of sitting across from a woman in a restaurant is scarier than it should be. Am I worried about Cate, myself, or the summoning up of old ghosts?

  He says, “Good for you. I figured after the Barton trial you would bury yourself into a deep hole and never come up for fresh air ever again.”

  “That was the plan.”

  “Things are looking up then.”

  Experience prevents me from feeling similar optimism. Hope works better as a surprise than an expectation.

  15

  Susan Benson opens the door to her chambers herself. The suite occupies the same position as Warren Jackson’s but on the opposite side of the courtroom. She says, “Come in, Chance.” Her manner is familiar, as if we were long-term acquaintances with a rich history together. She eschews the option of sitting behind her desk and leads me instead to a more intimate sitting area—the only justice today to opt for such informality. With any other judge, I would commend the lack of pretense. But after her affair with my father, Benson doesn’t get the
benefit of the doubt with me.

  The normal start to the conversation would be to thank her for meeting with me, but the words remain stuck in my throat. Benson fills the silent void and offers, “I owe you an apology.”

  I’m all ears.

  “The other day at the funeral, I just stood there and stared at you—or rather gawked. My behavior was awkward and impolite. I don’t know what came over me. Actually, that’s not true. You look so much like Jack. Seeing you face-to-face stopped me cold. I’m quite sorry.”

  That is not the apology I was looking for, and the invocation of my father’s name triggers me. But here’s the thing. Only the family called my father “Jack.” For everyone else it was “John” or, for a privileged few like Minton, “Mac.” But only the family used “Jack.”

  I manage to say, “I need to know what you were doing the night of Warren Jackson’s murder.”

  She studies me with an unnerving intensity, a hint of sadness gathering in the creases that line her face. I hope she doesn’t think that we can somehow be friends. That’s not how this works.

  “I was in my office working all alone.”

  “The whole time?”

  “The whole time.”

  “How would you describe your relationship with Warren Jackson?”

  “Non-existent.”

  “Non-existent? You served together as justices on the court for over twenty-five years.”

  “And I never said a word to him for that entire time. I assume you know why.”

  The answer is hard to believe, and I tell her so. She doesn’t back down.

  “You don’t know me that well, but I can carry a grudge. It’s one of my least appealing character traits.”

  “Me, too.”

  She’s the object of the message, and I barely disguise it. More sad lines bunch up around her eyes. I take a cold comfort in her sadness, even while recognizing the corrosiveness of the hostility inside of me. I eventually forgave Mr. Smith for murdering Amber and Cale, so I should be able to forgive Daddy and Benson for their sins of the flesh. But I’m not in the mood right now. I press on.

  “Given your longstanding feelings of bitterness toward Warren Jackson, duty compels me to ask: did you kill him?”

  “No.”

  Benson is nearing seventy and would have the same problems as Beverly Jackson in dealing with the recoil of the gun. Something tells me, though, that she’s tougher than her regal gentility would suggest. And with a motive and no alibi, she remains firmly planted on the suspect list.

  “Do you have any idea who might have wanted the Chief Justice dead?”

  “Not really, no. Despite my ill feelings toward him, his murder is still a shock.”

  “How was the relationship between Jackson and Larry Miller?”

  “The late Chief Justice was a difficult man and rode Larry hard. Too hard. But Larry always kept his composure and worked diligently to carry out the Chief’s wishes. I hope you don’t think Larry had something to do with it. That man wouldn’t hurt a flea. He has a true servant’s heart.”

  Sure, but everybody has a breaking point. I next ask about any hostility between Jackson and Adam Lumpkin. The question surprises her, and she takes her time to compose an answer.

  “The two were polar opposites judicially and would have heated arguments about the law. But that’s the extent of it. Adam likes to debate things. He is a loner and sticks to himself otherwise.”

  “Did you know that Jackson and Aurora Winnett had an affair?”

  “Not for sure. Did I suspect something? Yes. I saw the signs, little things here and there.”

  I bet she would know the signs. The thought must’ve been obvious on my face because the temperature in the room drops a few degrees.

  She returns to the topic at hand and volunteers, “I see what you’re getting at with these questions and realize that you’re just doing your job. But I know these people. Larry, Aurora, and Adam aren’t murderers.”

  “Well, somebody killed him.”

  The words stop her for a moment—the obvious truth of them unassailable. Somebody killed Warren Jackson, and a day of questioning hasn’t shed much light on the culprit. Benson no doubt speaks from the heart in vouching for these people, but no one at the party is a likely murderer on paper. And why kill Jackson with so many people around? Nothing makes sense.

  Benson breaks the silence and tells me, “I keep abreast of your career, even watched every minute of the Barton trial. I had an extra laptop set up on my desk to follow along while I worked. Jack was a great trial lawyer. That’s how we first met. He tried a case in my courtroom when I was a trial judge. A nasty car wreck case. Jack won a huge verdict. That said, you’re better. He would be so proud. You have a great gift. I was sad to learn that you quit.”

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  “I don’t know. Talking to you makes it feel like Jack is alive again. I loved him, and I’m not ashamed to tell you that, even though it’s obvious that you hate me.”

  I just sit there.

  She continues, “I never married, never even thought I would ever find love. Do you know how hard it was for a woman my age to break into the legal profession? The male attorneys treated the few women around as jokes, cute novelties to help pass the time. The judges were worse. I had to be a bitch to survive, tougher than any man. That was my reputation, and it was true. Didn’t matter. I still had to endure groping, lewd comments, sexual propositions—even after I was a judge. Jack was not like that. He was always a gentleman and treated me with respect. We worked closely together on juvenile justice reform, and I grew to love him.”

  “Didn’t hurt that he was going to be the next governor, either.”

  “That’s a cruel thing to say.”

  “My mother cursed you and stormed out of a family meal just yesterday because your name innocently came up. Twenty-five years later, her pain is still fresh. Speaking of cruelty, I believe she was dealing with breast cancer during the time my father was up here rutting around with you. You can save the poignant retelling of your true love story for someone else. I’m not the right audience.”

  She takes the blows like the tough lawyer she is, and I leave without either of us speaking another word.

  16

  As a judge on the Georgia Court of Appeals, Cate Slattery is literally and figuratively one level below the Supreme Court. Her office suite sits on the next floor down from that of Susan Benson. I take the stairs. Taking a deep breath to center myself after the confrontation with Benson, I knock on Cate’s door and put on a happy face.

  She opens the door, purse in hand, ready to go. As we ride down in the elevator, she warns, “No talk about work. The law has been on my brain all day, and I need a break.”

  “Deal.”

  “I’m nervous. Is it okay for me to say that? What about you? Are you nervous?”

  I deadpan, “I’m terrified.”

  The laugh she gives in response is buoyant—a fresh note that rallies me from the Benson unpleasantness. I lead her to my car to drive to the restaurant, even remembering to open the car door for her.

  ***

  Dinner is a casual affair—higher-end Mexican, low-key but nice enough to be respectable. I chose the spot because they bring chips out to you right when you sit down. Worried about carrying my end of the conversation, I calculated that gorging myself with fried bits of tortilla would work as a defense mechanism if needed.

  We start with drinks. Cate orders a margarita. I stick to water—a choice in keeping with my erratic attempts to achieve healthy living. Working on cars in my garage helps. The physical labor forces me to exercise my muscles in ways that being a trial lawyer never did. Time in the garage, though, has been sporadic since the start of the investigation. But I’m tantalizingly close to finishing the Corvette Stingray and hope to complete the restoration before the weekend. I explain to Cate my love affair with the car, and she makes me promise to give her a ride sometime. I take that as a good sig
n.

  The two of us have similar upbringings—rural life in neighboring towns, Southern Baptists since before birth, children of prominent men in the community. I was UGA undergrad and law school. Cate did the same but at Mercer. She married her high school sweetheart. I married my college one. I know she’s divorced but not the details. I don’t pry.

  After the food arrives and we finish the meal, the first lull in the conversation pops us, creating an awkward moment of uncertainty where we just smile at each other. I inquire, “Can I ask how you ended up on the court or does that count as work talk?”

  “Close to the line, but I’ll allow it. When a vacancy arose on the Court of Appeals, my husband encouraged me to apply. He used his political connections to get me before the Governor, and my interview sealed the deal. I got the job. We lived too far from Atlanta to commute, but my husband told me to get a condo in the city and come home on the weekends. I thought his sacrifice was born of love. Little did I know that he wanted me out of town so he could shack up with his secretary. Then I came home early one week to surprise him. He was surprised, all right. But so was I.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “That was over two years ago. Now I’m forty with a dream job but no husband and no kids. Sometimes I question whether the costs to get where I am were too much. My ex married his secretary, and they have a baby boy. She’s now a stay-at-home mom, which is a hard pill to swallow. I even had to keep his last name since that’s how the voters know me. The whole ordeal kinda turned me off from men for a while. Since yesterday didn’t count, tonight is the first date I’ve been on since the divorce.”

  She looks at me with a forlorn smile, probably questioning whether I’ll hurt her, too. I reflect on Ella and wonder the same thing. We sit there in silence, waiting for the check, nursing our own thoughts. Cate speaks first.

  “You can tell I’m out of dating practice. We were having a nice time, but I went and got all heavy on you. On a first date, no less. No telling what you think of me. After what you had to endure, my troubles must seem like a leisurely stroll in the park.”