22
An hour later, Justice Adam Lumpkin sits behind a desk stacked with books. He reads one as I enter and doesn’t bother to look up for a good minute. I take a seat. He doesn’t flinch. At last, he taps an emphatic finger on a page of the book and proclaims, “Exactly.” Only then does he acknowledge my existence. As performances go, I’ve seen better.
He offers an insincere smile and inquires, “How can I help you?”
That Lumpkin finally agreed to talk to me is a point in his favor, his making me wait this long a point against. The assumption is that he will prove difficult, but I’m open to being proven wrong. His office suite sits right next to Jackson’s on the hallway to the right of the courtroom, and the intense man before me may hold the keys to solving the murder.
I begin with the same open-ended fishing net I’ve used with most of the witnesses, “Tell me everything you remember about the night of the party.”
The response is an unusual one.
“Christy Brothers v. Turnage—a 1928 case from the Georgia Court of Appeals. A horse emptied its bowels on the lap of a female patron sitting in the front row of the circus. Can the woman recover emotional distress damages? The court said yes. You know why? Because the excrement landing on her counted as a touching. Fascinating, don’t you think?”
Something from law school stirs in my mind—a maxim that probably has universal application. If you don’t know who the class jerk is after a week of classes, then you’re the jerk. Lumpkin is the jerk.
I answer, “Riveting.”
“So, while everyone else was mingling and socializing, I was sitting at this desk thinking about how the Christy Brothers case applies to a situation where a lawn mower slings dog waste on a pedestrian walking on the sidewalk. What do you think?”
“I think you’re full of what that horse dropped onto that lady’s lap at the circus. You’re wasting my time.”
“Not as much as you’re wasting mine. You have time to waste, loads of it to waste on whatever frivolity catches your fancy. I lack that luxury. One hundred years from now, another justice is going to be sitting in this room, reading my opinions, and deciding the great issues of the day. That’s how important my work is. What do you have?”
“I have a gun and a badge.”
True enough. After the appointment, I received my very own “Special Attorney General” badge, mainly for ease of entry to anywhere I need to go. And I always keep a gun in my car.
Lumpkin scoffs, “So common. I’m tired of you already.”
“If you don’t play nice, then I’m not going to tell you what Senator Clement Parsons said about you.”
His mask drops for a second, and the eager desire in his eyes betrays his hunger. Every man has a weakness. Lumpkin’s is ambition. He gapes at me behind his spectacles, famished to know the Senator’s opinion of him—but still mindful that he is better than me.
“You talked to Senator Parsons about me?”
“Of course.”
“What did you talk about?”
I shake my head at him in sympathy and explain, “I can’t tell you what any other witness said until hearing your version of what happened at the party. Everyone’s testimony must remain pure, free from cross-contamination.”
He nods and begins.
“That approach is logically sound. As I said before, I was working on a case that night. At 7 p.m. sharp, my alarm went off. Each workday I set the alarm to the same time as a signal to take a break. Once the bell sounded, I got out of this chair, went to my private bathroom right here, and washed up for the reception. Then I went out onto the landing to see where things stood.”
“When do you think you reached the landing?”
“Ten minutes after the alarm. The precision of my routine does not vary.”
“We’ll call it 7:10 then. Did you see anyone in the hallway on your way out?”
“No one.”
“What happened when you reached the landing?”
“Senator Parsons was talking to a group of justices—Stockton, Jenkins, Milan, Wong, and Cordell. Jenkins and Milan’s wives were there. Stockton’s husband, too. The Senator was standing, and everyone else was sitting around the table next to the bar. They were all having a good chuckle. Never mind that the whole lot of them are behind on their work.”
The vehemence toward his colleagues is genuine, and he realizes that he let a little too much of his sneering contempt out of the bag. He tries to laugh it off, but neither of us buys the act.
“What about Warren Jackson? I heard the two of you weren’t the best of friends.”
“The man was a dullard with no respect for the law. Totally results-oriented and in the pocket of the trial lawyers. They bought that lake house for him. I don’t know how, but they did. With the Chief Justice finally gone, I expect some positive changes around here.”
“How so?”
“The Court’s votes in important opinions have split 5-4 in the Chief’s way for far too long. With a new appointment, it should start splitting 5-4 my way. I’m about to bring Georgia law into the new century.”
The smug smile he unfurls strikes me as powerfully authentic. I digest the implications of his prognostication. Lumpkin’s entire life apparently revolves around being a judge who shapes the law. Would he commit murder to further his judicial goals? I set the thought aside for later tending.
“Okay, you reached the landing and saw the Senator talking to your colleagues. What did you do next?”
“I approached Senator Parsons. We’ve met a number of times, and I was eager to talk to him again. We headed back to the room the Senator was using while in the building. That’s where we were when we heard about the Chief Justice.”
“Before you left the landing, did you see anybody else?”
“Apart from the hired help, no.”
The hired help. That’s how he refers to the caterers—a telling insight into that giant sense of superiority that he lugs around everywhere.
“You didn’t see Larry Miller?”
“I did not.”
“Do you know Gene Davis? Did you see him?”
“I do know Mr. Davis, and I’ve already told you that I didn’t see anyone else.”
Lumpkin’s account adds little to the known facts, apart from his implicit admission that he lacked an alibi before entering the landing. Combined with his proximity to Jackson and open antagonism toward him, Lumpkin’s non-alibi places the young justice near the top of my suspect list. But that’s just supposition. He gave me nothing in the way of proof. A new thought springs to mind.
“Did you hear any loud noise when you were in your chambers?”
“No.”
Scott and I will perform sound testing this weekend, but even with the soundproof walls, Lumpkin should’ve heard a shot from his chambers if the murder happened before he left for the landing. Unless he’s lying.
Lumpkin asks, “What did Senator Parsons say about me?”
“He thinks that you would make an excellent United States Supreme Court Justice one day.”
The lie represents a clear breach of my no-lying policy, but every rule has exceptions. The truth that the Senator considers him weird and delusional would’ve brought me a modicum of joy in the moment. But I might need to talk to Lumpkin again, and sharing that bit of intel would get a door slammed in my face next time. Besides, now Lumpkin can spend half his life convinced of something that will never happen, only to be bitterly disappointed when reality slaps him in the face. I’m playing the long game.
He beams as I exit the room.
23
Late in the afternoon the team gathers for a status update. Before we start, Scott asks, “Get something to eat afterwards?”
“Cate and I are going out again.”
“Look at you, lover boy. Didn’t you have lunch together?”
“Yeah.”
“Going a little fast there, aren’t you?”
“Nah. Just sharing some meals.”
Something in his manner is off, but an excited Marlon bursts in and draws the attention of the room.
“I’ve got something,” he says.
He explains that the wiretaps picked up a conversation between Tommy and Jerry Dalton, apparently right after I left the Attorney General’s office. We gather in our familiar circle, and Marlon pushes play on his laptop. We all scoot forward to listen to the show.
Tommy: We’ve got a problem. Gene told Meridian that you took Warren Jackson’s phone away from him.
Jerry: And what did you say?
Tommy: I denied it obviously.
Jerry: How do you know Gene told him that?
Tommy: Meridian told me so, but more than that, how else would he know? Did I tell him? No. Did you tell him? No. And I sure as hell don’t think Warren Jackson told him. That leaves only Gene, squealing like a pig at the drop of a hat. I told Father that we shouldn’t get involved with that two-bit hustler.
Tommy’s agitated voice nearly rises to a whine. The conversation between the brothers goes silent for a moment, and none of us in the room dares move a muscle for fear of missing out on the next words. The dialogue continues.
Tommy: I think we should cooperate and leave Gene to his own devices. Meridian wants us to sign affidavits throwing Gene under the bus.
Jerry: Are you crazy? All that money spent to send you to Harvard Law School, and they didn’t teach you any sense? Chance Meridian is not our friend.
Tommy: You don’t understand. Meridian hates Gene. Absolutely loathes him. I think it has something to do with Meridian’s father. We cooperate with him now, and Gene takes the fall. Our word against Gene’s, and Meridian doesn’t believe anything that comes out of Gene’s mouth. He thinks Gene killed Jackson for goodness sake! We play ball, we’re in the clear. Meridian even told me to be careful when talking with Gene on the phone in case Gene tries to trap me. I’m telling you, all he wants is Gene.
Jerry: He told you not to talk to Gene on the phone?
Tommy: Yes.
Jerry: This conversation is over. No calls or texts.
Tommy: But—
Jerry: We’re done.
The line goes dead, and I stare at the recording, marveling at Jerry Dalton’s razor-sharp instincts.
J.D. Hendrix asks, “What was that all about?”
“I warned the Attorney General not to talk to Gene on the phone to assure him that he wasn’t being wiretapped.”
Hendrix still looks confused and points out, “But we want him to talk on the phone.”
“And what was he just doing?”
Recognition dawns in his eyes. Part of the reason I warned Tommy about talking to Gene was to drive a wedge between the two. But I also wanted to plant the seed with Tommy that my investigation wasn’t in the wiretapping business. That seed was bearing fruit until Jerry Dalton sniffed it out. His ability on the thinnest of reeds to decipher my thinking gives me great pause.
I turn to Barbara and say, “Tomorrow morning, go back to Mary Woodcomb with this recording. She wanted something more before authorizing a wiretap on the Attorney General. This is something more. Marlon—prepare to be up and running on Tommy Dalton once you get the word.”
Barbara responds, “You’re not coming with me?”
“No. I have a date with Jerry Dalton.”
***
The next morning I drive myself to GBI Headquarters, just beyond the east side of the I-285 circle, the dividing line between the city and the suburbs. I’m making the trip alone. After Scott’s previous hostilities with Jerry, we decided to make this visit a solo mission. Second thoughts now plague me. I should’ve brought Marlon with me for back-up at least.
Jerry’s office wall is decorated with reminders of his exploits as a Navy SEAL. The awards are so numerous as to give the feeling that I’m in the same room with Captain America. He beckons me to a chair and doesn’t bother to hide his annoyance. His hair is cropped and peppered with speckles of gray, his physique still combat-ready. He stares at me across a void of silence—the same examination technique I’ve used against scores of witnesses in the past to prod them to speak first. I blink.
“No use beating around the bush. I know you’re mad that the Governor gave me your investigation. I had nothing to do with that. Didn’t want it. But he leaned into me hard. The only reason I’m here is to get your story about what happened that night. You’re one of the witnesses. Hopefully, we can wrap this up in short order and go about our day.”
Jerry lets me marinate in the hostility for a solid ten seconds before deigning to speak.
“What do you want to know?”
“Just what all you remember about that night.”
“Tommy and I attended the reception together. He wanted to go and find Jackson to congratulate him on the new courthouse or something. Gene Davis was milling about and invited himself to go along with us. We went into Jackson’s office, said our pleasantries, and left when Jackson’s wife arrived. We then went into the courtroom to wait for the speeches to begin. Neither Tommy nor I left the courtroom. Gene popped in and out. Jackson’s wife wandered in at one point, and the Clerk of Court was messing around with microphones and arranging chairs at the lectern. Later, we heard Mrs. Jackson scream and rushed to investigate. Jackson was dead. The Governor instructed me to get the GBI on the case as soon as possible. I made sure no one else entered the crime scene.”
The story matches Tommy’s almost to the letter. The brothers obviously talked offline to ensure that they were reading from the same script. But that doesn’t mean Jerry’s account is wholly without value. For one thing, his words prove that he isn’t much of a cop. His pride in keeping everyone out of Jackson’s chambers shows his investigative inexperience. The crime scene was much larger than the immediate vicinity of the murder. Jerry should’ve kept everyone in the building to nail down their stories, search for the gun, and even perform gunshot residue tests. The failure to do so was a huge win for the murderer. Maybe that was the point.
I respond, “Gene Davis said something about your taking the Chief Justice’s phone during the meeting you described. He was light on the details, leading me to question his trustworthiness. Plus, my family has known Gene for a long time, and he’s never been one to tell the truth. But he said it, so I have to ask. Did you take Warren Jackson’s cell phone from him during this meeting?”
“Of course not. That doesn’t even make any sense.”
“Exactly. I pressed Gene on the why, and he refused to give me anything. Best I figure he’s working an angle to set up your brother somehow.”
I pause to allow him to jump in and fill the conversational hole. Most witnesses do, eager to escape the unnerving quiet. He just sits there. I imagine as a SEAL he sat in places all over the world for long periods of time without making a sound. He can do this all day and then some.
I ask, “Since you had the investigation at the outset, I wanted to ask you point blank: who do you think killed the Chief Justice?”
His face still reveals little apart from scorn. The malevolence is making me jittery. I remember a visit years ago to Skidaway Island, off the Georgia coast near Savannah. Before hiking by myself in the state park, I asked a ranger whether alligators were something to worry about. She assured me no, that the copperheads were the real menace. Her words didn’t put me at ease. Early in the hike, I came across a small, dark pool of water—mere feet away—featuring a sign that said, “Alligator Pond.” I pick up my pace, game-planning defensive measures in the event of a gator encounter, realizing that my options were decidedly limited. Down the trail, a snake—not a copperhead, but a snake still—crossed the path just in front of me, further sledgehammering my insides. I rushed through the rest of the trail loop, again passing by the alligator pond, almost sprinting back to the car by the end of it—the frenzied psychological terror totally disproportionate to any real
risk.
Sitting across from Jerry Dalton in this moment produces that same unreasoned anxiety. He is the alligator, and I’m standing too close to the pond for my own good.
He replies, “I don’t know who killed him. The investigation was taken away from me and given to you.”
I could ask other questions, but the investment return would be negligible. And like that day on Skidaway Island a long time ago, I just want to get the hell out of here.
Our eyes lock as I stand to leave. He sees through me, recognizes that my purported disinterest in him is a ruse. We both know the lay of the land. Daggers of warning shoot from his eyes, and the unfiltered message reveals a deep hatred for me.
Back in the car, a deep breath fails to do much soothing. The fear clings on my skin like grimy sweat. I think about the upcoming afternoon to take the edge off.
Ella is being sworn in as a judge by Minton after lunch. Cate will attend, along with many other judges from the Court of Appeals and Supreme Court. The thought of being under the same roof as both Cate and Ella is itself a nervous one—though a much different kind of terror than what I just escaped. I return to thinking about Jerry.
As I drive back to town, something he said plants a foothold that’s hard to shake. I replay all my interviews, searching for the answer that fails to materialize. The missing piece astounds me, and I sink into a deep melancholy. Only one option is open to me.
I must talk to the Governor.
24
Ella stands on the floor of the State Capitol rotunda with her right hand raised in the air. Her beaming mother is next to her, holding a family Bible. Minton completes the trio, holding up his own arm as he recites the oath for Ella to repeat. The ritual complete, Ella Kemp is now a judge.
Wearing a stylish blue dress, she takes to the lectern to deliver her remarks to the seated dignitaries before her—including Cate on the front row.
Ella remains, as always, beautiful.
I stand off from the crowd, near the edge of the rotunda’s shadows, battling a range of emotions on more fronts than I can defend.
Death to the Chief (Atlanta Murder Squad Book 2) Page 11
