Ms. Huff said she needed to check with the judge. She went into chambers and after some murmured conversation returned to say that Thursday morning was impossible, as the judge was in trial. What about Friday, March 23, a week from now? Gail said there was no way she could be ready by then.
There was more conversation in chambers. Ms. Huff came out again. She was trying to remain patient with the idea of a hearing dropped into the middle of the week on short notice. Would Wednesday, March 28, be all right? Gail said she preferred the afternoon. They went back and forth for a while on whether Gail really needed four hours.
A short, white-haired man in tie and shirtsleeves appeared at the door of chambers to listen to the conversation. Gail assumed this was Judge Willis. He worked at his teeth with a toothpick, trying not to be obvious about it.
Finally he said, "You know, Ms. Connor, this is the second 3.850 motion in this case. I'm supposed to hold a hearing on whether you get a hearing at all."
"I'm aware of that, judge, but we're under warrant, and there isn't much time. Do you have two dates open?"
His judicial assistant muttered something and shook her head.
The judge said, "Well, Joan, let's just put it down for March 28, two o'clock in the afternoon. We'll go past five if we have to, but I hope this doesn't take too long. My wife and I have tickets at the Lyric Theater that night. Can't remember what's going on, but she'll have a fit if we're late. Let's try to get this wrapped up by six o'clock at the very latest." He told Gail to file her papers by 5:00 p.m. on Monday, March 26, to give the state attorney time to reply.
"I'm due to retire next month," he added. "Your client was my first capital case on the criminal bench, and he's going to be my last. How about that?"
"What a coincidence," Gail said. She reached into her briefcase and took out some papers. "As long as you're here, judge, would you mind?"
The first was a motion for an order allowing her to take depositions. "Mrs. Chastain has new information. Her ID of my client was tainted, and I need to establish that on the record. Officers Kemp and Federsen were involved in preventing an alibi witness from testifying. I believe Sheriff Bryce knew about it, and I want to establish that."
The judge tossed his toothpick into the trash under his JA's desk and took the motion from Gail. He read it and shook his head. "You'll have to request a hearing. If I signed this ex parte, the prosecutor would throw a fit. But let me tell you right now, I won't grant your motion. Mr. Clark's trial attorney had every opportunity in the world to delve into the ID issues when he deposed these witnesses eleven years ago."
Gail had not really expected him to allow depositions, but she had not known a hearing was required. She handed him the other motion. "This one is just routine, really. It's so I can get all the crime scene photographs from the sheriffs office."
"Ms. Connor, what did I just say? A hearing is required on motions for discovery."
"When? There isn't time. We're under a death warrant."
"I don't make the rules," he said, "but I expect lawyers to comply with them."
Her mind spun. "Okay. What if I have someone from the state attorney's office call you and say it's all right? What about that?"
Ms. Huff bit her lips on a smile and pretended to be busy at her computer.
Peeved, the judge said, "Why can't you get the photos from CCR? They have them, don't they?"
"I need to see all of them."
"Crime scene photos aren't new evidence. You could have had them before. I won't grant this motion either."
Gail's pulse picked up. "I'm not saying the photographs are new evidence, I'm saying they might lead to evidence the police missed that would be new. It's no burden on the sheriff’s office to give me the photos. Judge Willis, please. My client is facing imminent execution. I wouldn't ask for the photographs if I didn't honestly believe they contained crucial new evidence."
The judge held up his hands. "Tell you what. You run over to the state attorney's office and have somebody call me. If they have no objection, I'll sign it." He called to her as she hurried across his office. "Now you be sure and get that brief in on time, Ms. Connor. I hate to rush, and something like this throws everybody off schedule."
"Yes, judge. Thank you." She groveled her way out the door, biting her tongue. Screw the schedule. Screw the judge's theater tickets.
Gail took copies of the motion and order next door to the state attorney's branch office. Joseph Fowler, the original prosecutor on the case, had retired. One of his assistants, Sonia Krause, had become the state attorney of the Nineteenth Circuit, at the main office in Fort Pierce. Gail supposed she might see the woman in court on March 28. Krause had been second chair at the Clark trial. Gail expected no cooperation, but finally someone came down to see her, an attorney in the criminal trial division. He took the pleadings, went back upstairs, and came down again fifteen minutes later. "This isn't proper procedure," he said, "but we're going to extend you the courtesy." She thanked him profusely, went back to the courthouse, and paced for almost an hour outside Judge Willis's chambers waiting to see him.
The judge shook his head, uncapped his pen, and signed the order. "Must be your lucky day, Ms. Connor."
She returned once more to the state attorney's office and gave a copy of the order to the woman behind the desk. Raising a brow, the woman gave her a date-stamped receipt.
At the post office Gail sent copies of everything to the Attorney General in West Palm Beach, overnight delivery, certified mail. They would be arguing against her in the Florida Supreme Court, should she lose in the trial court.
Gail took two Excedrin, got back into her car, and headed for the Martin County sheriffs office.
In a small way, the Holt Justice Center reminded Gail of Florida State Prison. Many acres of empty land, many fences and coils of razor wire. But that was the county lockup. The sheriff’s office was in the low building at the other end of the parking lot, flags out front.
The information desk was just off the lobby behind glass doors. Gail spoke to a woman in a green uniform, stated her purpose, and asked to speak to someone in crime scene. With a copy of the order in her hand the woman said to have a seat. Gail wandered to the window, then thumbed through a brochure on the Sheriffs Youth Ranch. Garlan Bryce's photograph was on the wall, one face among sixty-six other sheriffs of Florida counties.
"Ms. Connor?" A man in a long-sleeved striped shirt had come through a door to the back. He was around fifty, thin and wiry, with curly gray hair receding from his forehead. There was a holstered gun on his belt. At the counter he held up the order by its top edge.
"Is this yours?"
"Yes. I represent Mr. Clark." The man said nothing, so she went on, "There's a hearing March 28, and I want to make sure I get copies of the crime scene photos as soon as possible. All of them. How long will it take?"
"Usually ten days to two weeks."
"It can't be done sooner?"
His mouth smiled but the pale gray eyes were cool. "You asked how long it takes. That's how long it takes."
"You'll see that the order says 'immediately' "
"Here's how it works, Ms. Connor. Somebody in crime scene has to find the time to drop whatever they're doing to go over to another building, where we keep our evidence vault. They have to locate the negatives. They fill out the paperwork and request a pickup from the commercial lab we use. The lab picks up the negatives. When they're done, they bring them back. Like I said, ten days to two weeks."
"May I ask your name?"
"Lieutenant Ronald Kemp." He wanted her to say something about it.
"I see. Do you drag your feet on all court orders or is this one special?"
"Do you think you should be treated special? There are other requests ahead of yours, just as important. We'll get to it when we get to it."
She stared back at him a moment, then took the order out of his hand and turned to the woman behind the desk. "Would you please let Sheriff Bryce know that I would li
ke to speak with him? Again, my name is Gail Connor. He knows me."
"He's in a meeting," the woman said. "Do you want to leave a message?"
Kemp leaned against a file cabinet with his arms crossed, waiting to see what Gail would do.
"I'll wait."
She sat in one of the fake leather armchairs by the glass doors. Kemp went back to work. After ten minutes of doing nothing, Gail went into the lobby and returned a few phone calls. She had just disconnected from a call to a client in a mortgage foreclosure case when she heard heels on the tile floor.
The sheriff had come out a door further down the hall. He was wearing his cowboy boots, a brown suit, and a cream-colored Stetson hat, apparently not planning to stick around.
Her heart pounded. She was sure that Dorothy Chastain had called him to complain. Those attorneys from Miami forced their way into my house. Garlan was going to pull out his handcuffs, arrest her, throw her in jail—
"I'm on my way out," he said, "so I don't have much time."
Relief made her dizzy. She cleared her throat. "Gar-Ian, I'm trying to get copies of crime scene photographs in the Kenny Ray Clark case—"
"Gail, let me say this once, and please listen. This office does not put anyone's request at the bottom of the stack. Nor do we cut breaks for anyone. However, if a judge tells us that a certain case is a rush, we respond accordingly. The crime scene department will have the negatives ready for pickup early next week. If you go back in and get the phone number of the lab from the desk clerk, you can make your own arrangements as to how fast they pick them up and how fast you get them."
Garlan Bryce was a slab of polished stone. He said, "I hope this is acceptable."
"Yes. I appreciate it. Thank you, Garlan."
He touched the brim of his hat. "Good day."
Gail drove directly to Atlantic Photo, which did the processing for the sheriffs office. She asked to speak to the manager. When he came out she gave him a copy of the order and a check for five hundred dollars as a down payment. She gave him another hundred cash to treat it as a rush, and he promised her the prints the day after he picked up the negatives.
What was to be found in the photographs, Gail didn't know, but any straw floating by was worth grabbing at. It would be impossible, she thought, as she hurried to her car, to give these errands to anyone else. Not a paralegal or secretary or even an investigator. The attorney herself had to be there to shove, whine, and cajole.
With this small success, her spirits rose.
The Clip 'n' Dip van was waiting for her in the parking lot of the Target store over the bridge from Stuart. Gail apologized for running late. Tina Hopwood said it was okay, she'd just gotten here herself; her client had changed her mind on the color of polish for her poodle's nails.
Her pink smock was flecked with dog hair. She sat in the front seat of Gail's Acura to read the four-page affidavit, which she signed at the end in loopy script, dotting the i with a circle. Her black bangs hung in her eyes. "You made me sound real good," she said. She gave back the pen and the affidavit. "What are you going to do with this?"
"File it with the motion as an exhibit." Gail slid it into a folder, which she dropped onto the backseat. "You won't have any trouble making it to court for the hearing, I hope."
"I'll be there. I'm gonna look that bastard Detective Kemp in the eye when I tell the judge what he did to me. Is Kenny coming?" Gail replied no, that Kenny would remain at the prison since his testimony wasn't needed. Tina squeezed her wrist. "You tell him I said to be strong. I'm praying for him." She turned to open the door. "Gotta run. Three dogs and a cat this afternoon."
Just as Tina Hopwood started the engine of her van, Gail knocked on the window, and Tina rolled it down.
"Do you remember you told me about some migrant workers that Kenny and your ex-husband chased out of an orange grove?" Tina said yes, she remembered. "According to Kenny, nothing happened, no one was hurt. But you said that Glen threatened to hit you when you asked about it. You're sure about that?"
"Positive. Why?"
"I'm worried that Kenny's lying to me."
"He is," Tina said. "What difference does it make? That was thirteen years ago."
Gail said, "I can't be blindsided. We're going to get some publicity. If one of these people sees it on TV and says Kenny beat him up, the state attorney would use it against us. I wonder if Glen would talk to me—in confidence of course."
"He might, if you put some money in his inmate trust fund."
"Where is he?"
"Union Correctional. Call me, I'll give you his ID number."
Another scrap of good luck. UCI was only a mile from Florida State Prison. Next time Gail went to see Kenny, she could talk to Glen Hopwood as well. But probably wouldn't. Time was too precious, her resources too few. She couldn't follow every last thread.
The Grigsbys took Gail out on the back patio again, and the three of them had some lemonade. She didn't object when Bess Grigsby stirred in some Absolut Citron for flavor.
Gail had brought only one affidavit. It was Bess who had observed problems in her neighbors' marriage; Art Grigsby's opinions were less certain. Gail said, "You don't mind, do you, Art?"
"Heck no, my feelings aren't hurt," he said. "Bess has the brains in the family."
"I don't know if the judge will consider this," Gail said, "since technically it could have been discovered before, but no harm in trying."
Bess Grigsby put her cigarette in the coconut-shell ashtray to read the affidavit. She slowly turned the pages.
"Hoo boy," Art said, reading over her shoulder. "There's some pretty strong words in there. You make it sound like Gary did it."
Gail felt their resolve slipping away, and she held on. "No, I'm not saying that. I want to show that the police failed to pursue other leads. They rushed to judgment with my client."
"What if Gary gets mad and comes knocking on the door?"
"Oh, Art, don't be such a weenie." Bess held out her sun-browned hand. "Give me the pen."
Art took a swallow of lemonade. "My wife's one hell of a woman."
She did a shimmy, then picked up her cigarette. "You know it, sailor." Her laugh rasped from her throat, and blue jays outside the screen fluttered and settled back on the lawn.
Gail put the affidavit away. She would notarize it later and send Bess a copy. "There's something I meant to ask last time. Did you know any of Amber's friends?"
"Friends. Hmmm." Smoke drifted upward.
Art Grigsby nudged his wife. "Bess? Who was that girl with the red Corvette?"
"Art always notices girls in sports cars."
"She used to come by a lot before Amber had the baby. They worked together. She used to take Amber to work sometimes. I'd go out for the paper and see her drive up. Sure. A cute little blond girl, real friendly. Come on now, honey, what was her name?"
"You're such a sucker for blondes." Bess Grigsby swung her bare foot. "Before the baby. Hmmm."
"Janey ... Joanie." Art interlocked his fingers on top of his bald head. "No, it was two names, wasn't it, honey? Judy Sue ... Betty Ann... Hold on now, it's coming."
Rolling her eyes, Bess reached for her spiked lemonade.
He clapped his hands together. "Mary Jo. That's it. Am I right or am I right?"
"Arthur! You old smarty-pants." His wife pinched his cheek.
With a grin, Art Grigsby nodded at Gail.
CHAPTER 14
Friday afternoon, March 16
The historic section of downtown Stuart ran parallel to the tracks of the Florida East Coast railroad. The tracks, the main street, and several other roads met at a tangle of asphalt that the city had tried to make less confusing by means of a traffic circle. Gail went around and around the fountain, spotting the restaurant where she would meet her cousin but finding nowhere to park. This was still high tourist season, and the warm, sunny weather had filled the shops and outdoor tables.
Finally she veered off and drove for a couple of blocks alo
ng the tracks. The street would dead-end at the river. A black pickup truck was close behind her, so she swung into a tight U-turn and pulled off the road. Hers was the only car on that side, and she noted with approval the lack of parking meters. She didn't know how long she and Jackie could talk. Jackie would go on duty at three.
Gail had debated with herself what to say to her, how to get past that awful confrontation in the barn last weekend. Jackie would never go against her father, of course, but still it had to mean something that she had called with Vernon Byrd's address.
Locking her car, Gail heard the clanging of a crossing gate. Lights flashed at the intersection. She walked slowly in that direction. A moment later came the heavy thrum of a diesel engine. She saw bright vertical headlights. The train moved forward slowly, unstoppably. A forgotten thrill surged through her. As a child she had gone with her father to the railroad tracks in Miami. He had put a nickel on the smooth, shining steel and stepped down off the ties. She had waited, waited, watching the lights grow nearer, feeling the ground shake, the sudden wind and terrible noise, and there had come with it the hideous, wondrous thought of being swept under those clacking, massive, dreadful wheels.
Without realizing, Gail had wandered to the middle of the street. As she followed the progress of the engine, she turned. A pickup truck was directly behind her, not coming fast, but closing the distance. She hurried out of the way. It was the same shiny black truck she had seen before, a big Ford with knobby tires. The side window was down, and the driver rested his hard-muscled arm on the frame.
He was looking at her. A cowboy hat with a silver band shadowed his face, but she saw the reddish-gray goatee, a lank ponytail. The train thundered past, visible through the windows. The truck moved down the street. Chrome exhausts. Gun rack. A Confederate flag sticker in the back window. Brake lights went on. The crossing gates were lifting. The black truck vanished into traffic.
It took her a minute to remember his name. Rusty Beck.
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