Secrets of the Last Castle

by A. Rose Mathieu

  “These documents belonged to your father.” It wasn’t meant to be a question.

  He sorted through them before tossing them on the desk and glaring at her. “I don’t recognize these.”

  “It’s intelligence information gathered on multiple people that opposed your father. Several people listed in these reports disappeared or were found murdered.”

  “Detective, these have nothing to do with me. Now, if you don’t mind—”

  “They were stolen from your safe deposit box in March 1963.” She knew she was stretching that one because she couldn’t prove it, but she was looking for his reaction.

  “What are you implying?”

  She took note that he didn’t deny it. “I’m just asking questions, sir. Only two of the murders from that list went to trial. You defended Tobias Stokes, the man accused of the murders.” She hadn’t really thought to look at the players involved in the Stokes trial until after her conversation with Elizabeth, when it became apparent that Stokes was convicted of a murder that he didn’t commit. Quick research by Casey into the DA’s records confirmed that Davis Powers, a newly minted attorney, was appointed defense counsel.

  “I wouldn’t remember that. I was a defense attorney back then, and the court assigned countless indigent cases to me.”

  “I would think you’d remember this one. Tobias Stokes was African-American, and from what I could see, your only African-American client in your illustrious defense attorney career. The rest of your clients seemed to be of a very different demographic.”

  “Look, Detective, I don’t know what you’re getting at, but as I’m sure you’re aware, Mr. Stokes was convicted of those murders by a jury of his peers.”

  So he does remember. “Jury of his peers? An all-white jury, with a white prosecutor, white judge, and white defense attorney.” She couldn’t help but think back to the book Elizabeth showed her at the White Horse Plantation, To Kill a Mockingbird. “But you, sir, were no Atticus Finch.”

  He scrunched up his face, the analogy clearly lost on him. “Detective, I think your implications are bordering on slander. You keep this up, and the rest of your career will be spent directing traffic.”

  She didn’t acknowledge his threat and continued. “Well, sir—”

  “That’s Your Honor to you,” he said.

  “I apologize, Your Honor.” She knew better. She was only doing it to goad him. “Let’s look at this from a different perspective. An intelligence report compiled by your father on his political enemies was in your safe deposit box, until stolen in one of the largest bank robberies in state history. The intel reports even contained information about the bank and its assets. A bank where you conveniently kept your safe deposit box, allowing you a slight advantage in attaining knowledge of the inside working of the bank, but I digress.”

  She noted the tight grasp of his intertwined fingers that rested on the desk, but he made no effort to stop her, and she continued. “Some may consider it a conflict of interest if the murder victims were listed on your father’s report, a report in which most of the people disappeared or were murdered, a report that was once in your possession. It also can’t be ignored that a defense attorney, reputed for defending white supremacists, takes on the defense of Stokes. Pretty good way to make sure that those two murder cases got closed with no fingers pointing toward your father.”

  “You can’t prove any of this and nobody cares about some dead ni—” He stopped himself short of saying the word and pushed back his chair. Grace was afraid that the force would send the chair flying backward, but it managed to stay on all four wheels. He visibly calmed himself and looked directly at her. “I don’t need to speak with you.”

  “No, Your Honor, you don’t, but given that you are up for confirmation, a very contested confirmation, it may not bode well that you are refusing to cooperate in a murder investigation.”

  He slammed his fist on the desk. “This is blackmail.”

  “No, Your Honor, it’s just the facts.”

  She could hear him breathing through his nostrils as his chest rose in rhythm. He never broke eye contact. “A fifty-year-old murder trial has no connection to the investigation of an old woman killed in a knife attack, in which the suspect was caught red-handed,” he said through gritted teeth.

  “I never mentioned that the murder investigation involved an old woman.”

  “Nice try, Detective, but I looked you up while you were sitting outside. I know what case you’re working on.”

  Nice recovery. “Actually, Your Honor,” she made it a point to emphasize the title, “I’m investigating the murder of Reverend Rick Peterson. He was killed with the same gun as the Freedom Riders protestors. The gun was found at the scene at the White Horse Plantation, a plantation I believe you once frequented.”

  “Why would you assume that?”

  “Well, your father, Senator Powers, seemed to have, shall we say, a working relationship with Josiah Webb, who owned the plantation. They shared an ideology and vision, until he decided to turn on your father and steal the intel reports.” She made the last part up, but she was on a fishing expedition.

  Judge Powers didn’t answer, but instead stared at her with a look of ill intent. “Detective, I think we’re done here.”

  “Just a bit more.” He made no effort to invoke his Fifth Amendment rights, so she carried on. “There was another body buried next to Peterson—Samuel Harris, the caretaker of the plantation. He was killed with the same gun.” She agreed with Elizabeth that given the fact that Reverend Peterson had possession of the gun, it was probably passed down the family line, along with the property. This made Webb a likely murder suspect of the Freedom Rider protestors and Samuel, but as she laid out her case to the judge, she was even more convinced of his complicity. “Webb didn’t like his daughter seeing Samuel, did he?” That question was for Elizabeth.

  “Olivia was a disgrace to her family with that ni—black boy,” he spewed out with hate before he checked himself. She clearly struck a nerve and wondered if he had some unrequited feelings for her back in the day, making Olivia’s relationship with Samuel a double slap. Grace was also heartened to have confirmed Elizabeth’s theory of Olivia’s identity, as well as her purported first death and Samuel’s murder.

  However, as she assessed the judge, she doubted he carried out Peterson’s murder. It wasn’t just his age and physical condition that made it improbable, but the murder weapon used. The judge wouldn’t have used a gun that could be tied to the Freedom Rider protestors, or Samuel for that matter. That was careless, and he didn’t strike her as careless.

  Grace had run out of questions, at least ones that she thought he might answer. “Thank you, Your Honor, for your time. I’ll see myself out.” She turned without waiting for a reply, not that she was expecting one, and walked out of the office, the reception area, and the courthouse as fast as she could. She couldn’t seem to get far enough away from the man.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Elizabeth slapped her hand on the bedside table in a feeble attempt to grab her ringing cell phone, but only succeeded in knocking it to the ground. When the ringing stopped, she settled back into her pillow, the phone forgotten until it rang again.

  “Uggh!” She reached down and began searching the floor to no avail and leaned over the side of the bed for a better view, which proved to be a mistake because the rest of her body followed. She lay on the ground with one leg caught in the twisted sheet, and her phone rang for a third time.

  “What?” Whoever had the nerve to call this early didn’t deserve manners. She heard Grace’s soft laugh on the other end.

  “Catch you at a bad time?”

  “Just a bit tied up at the moment.” She kicked her foot trying to free it, but the sheet refused to release its possessive grip.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I fell out of bed trying to reach the phone, and I’m lying on the floor. My foot is stuck in the sheet.”

  Grace re
mained silent.

  “Grace, are you still there?”

  “I’m here. I’m just trying to picture it, and it looks pretty good. What are you wearing because I’m picturing you in the little pajama set you had on the other morning.”

  Elizabeth found herself aroused by the low timbre of Grace’s voice. “Grace, if you keep talking like this, I’m going to have to pleasure myself, and you’ll have stay on the phone and listen.”

  “Oh Jesus, I’ll call you back.”

  The line went silent, and Elizabeth tossed the phone on the floor and used both hands to pull her foot free. She plopped on the bed and waited for Grace to call. Just as she started to drift off again, the phone rang and this time, she took more care in locating it.

  “Are you available to talk?” Grace asked.

  “You mean am I still touching myself? Wait, just one more sec, almost there.” She took a couple of deep breaths into the phone for show.

  “You’re killing me.”

  Elizabeth didn’t hold back her giggle. “Now that we got the phone sex out of the way, what else do you want to do?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You called me, remember?” Elizabeth loved that she had her so flustered.

  “Right, um…give me a minute.”

  “Was that your zipper?”

  “No, that was not my zipper. I’m sitting at my desk going through my notes.”

  “If you say so.”

  “Will you stay on track please?”

  “You started it.”

  “I’ll have to remember that next time.”

  “Next time?”

  “Never mind. Please try to focus.” She could hear Grace take a fortifying breath. “I got the forensics report back on the sweater you found.”

  “And?”

  “There was dried blood and two sets of hair follicles. There was enough of a viable sample to run them through the database.”

  “You found a match?”

  “No, not exactly. A partial match, someone related to both samples.”

  * * *

  Elizabeth walked down the hall to the fourth-story apartment. She adjusted her blazer and hiked her bag higher on her shoulder to delay having to knock on the door. She continued to process the information Grace gave her that morning, as it fumbled about in her head. She raised her fist and gave a gentle knock, trying not to disturb any of the other neighbors since it was still early. When the door opened, she was met by Camille’s surprised look.

  “Is everything okay? It’s Jackson isn’t it? What happened?” she asked in rapid succession as she pulled Elizabeth inside.

  “No, Jackson is fine. I’m sorry to bother you so early, but I had some questions, and I couldn’t wait.”

  “Of course, sit down.” Camille guided her to the couch, and she took a seat next to Elizabeth, but perched on the edge still in full alert. She looked about the modest living room that was warmly furnished. Mrs. Francis entered the room dressed in a robe. Elizabeth assured her that Jackson was fine in response to her startled look at her presence.

  Mrs. Francis took a seat in a light brown recliner that she guessed was her usual seat in the room based on the personal items and medication bottles on the table beside it. She tightened the tie around her robe, as though bracing herself.

  “On one of my visits to the plantation,” Elizabeth said, “I found a woman’s sweater.”

  “Plantation?” Mrs. Francis asked.

  Elizabeth realized that Camille had been withholding information about the developments in the case from her, probably due to her health concerns. This made Elizabeth more uneasy, and she looked to Camille for silent permission to bring her up to date before she enlightened Mrs. Francis on all that they had discovered. Mrs. Francis sat motionless absorbing every detail.

  “So Jackson is okay?” Camille asked again.

  “Yes. I’m here because a forensic lab ran tests and found a partial match of the DNA found on the sweater.”

  “To who?” Camille barked.

  “To Jackson. His DNA was entered into the system once he was arrested.”

  Mrs. Francis looked confused. “They have his DNA?”

  “Yes, a state can collect DNA from anyone that has been arrested to input into a national database to determine if it matches any other unsolved crimes.”

  “Oh.” Mrs. Francis nodded.

  Camille bolted up. “That’s ridiculous. This is that detective’s doing. My brother had nothing to do with any of this. He’s never been to the plantation.”

  Elizabeth stood and stroked Camille’s arm in an attempt to calm her. “I know. The DNA was only a partial match. It means that it’s likely he’s related to whoever owned that sweater.”

  Camille stared at her and her mouth dropped open, but no words came out. Elizabeth knelt in front of Mrs. Francis, who had her head bowed. “Mrs. Francis, it’s your sweater. You’re Margaret.”

  She lifted her head, her eyes filled with tears, and ineffectively wiped at them. Elizabeth always referred to her as Mrs. Francis, and she’d had to look through her old case files to confirm Mrs. Francis’s first name on a health care proxy that she had once drafted for her.

  “Yes, but I don’t understand what this has to do with Jackson.” She sniffled as she spoke.

  “You went to the Freedom Riders rally.”

  “Yes.” She cleared her throat as her voice began to falter. “There were two young men. They came into the restaurant where I was working and handed out flyers and told us about the rally that evening. I had never participated in anything of the sort before, but they were so inspirational. They spoke with passion. I felt compelled to go. I had stayed quiet in the corner too long.”

  That simple statement went right to Elizabeth’s heart. “What happened?”

  “The rally was like nothing I had seen before. It was people, black and white, holding hands and singing. I stepped in with them, and a woman I didn’t know took hold of my hand and held it. That was the first time a white person ever touched me like that.”

  Elizabeth only then realized that she was holding Mrs. Francis’s hand, and she gave it a soft squeeze.

  “When the rally was finished, it was late,” Mrs. Francis continued. “I was going to walk home, but the two young men offered to drive me. When we were only about a quarter-mile from my home, a car came out of the dark and forced us off the road. Another car then appeared. The men, there were three of them, yanked us from our car. They threw me in the back seat of one of their cars.” If she had to guess, Elizabeth would peg Judge Powers, Webb, and possibly Webb’s son as the three. “I never saw the other young men again.”

  Elizabeth couldn’t decide whether to tell her that the other men were murdered, but Mrs. Francis ended her debate.

  “I read in the newspaper that those men were killed.” She stared off and her voice took on a vacant sound, as though she was no longer feeling the words. “They drove around, and I tried to open the door and escape, but the man in the passenger seat jumped into the back and began beating me. I remember the metallic taste of blood as it poured from my mouth and nose.” She ran her tongue around the inside of her mouth as though the taste was still present. “When they stopped, we were on a small side road surrounded by woods. They dragged me out and they…” She squeezed her eyes shut, but a tear managed to escape despite her efforts. “They were animals.”

  Elizabeth reached for a tissue on the side table and placed it into her hand. Mrs. Francis dabbed at her eyes and balled the tissue into the palm of her hand. “When they finished with me, they dragged me to a small opening in the trees. There was a hole and they told me to climb in. They then took away the rope, my only way out, and closed the door on top. I was sure that they left me there to die. It felt like I was in there for weeks, but it was two days.”

  “How did you get out?”

  “She came.”

  “Olivia?”

  “Yes. She opened the door and threw down the rope. She nearl
y had to lift me out because I was so weak. She gave me food and water and hid me in a barn on the property until nightfall. She then helped me escape. I walked for about three hours I’d say, until someone found me wandering the road.”

  “Did you go to the police?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Honey.” She stroked Elizabeth’s cheek with her soft, creased hand. “You have to understand, it was 1962. I was black. They were white. There was no police, judge, or jury that would believe me. I survived. That was as much as a black girl could hope for.”

  Elizabeth felt an overwhelming urge to cry, and Mrs. Francis reached down and wrapped her arms around her in comfort. She felt silly that she was the one being comforted, but her warmth and strength felt good. Sitting back on her heels, she took a deep breath and looked up to Mrs. Francis. “The DNA from the sweater…” Elizabeth faltered for a moment and collected herself. “There were two sets of DNA collected from the sweater. Jackson was a partial match for both.”

  Mrs. Francis nodded. “My Frank knew I was pregnant, but he understood. He married me anyway. He raised Robert as his own.”

  Elizabeth heard Camille sniffle but kept her focus on Mrs. Francis. “Olivia was the woman that was killed in the alley. The purse, it wasn’t by chance that she gave it to Jackson. She was trying to get it to you. She found you, but she knew she wouldn’t make it.”

  Mrs. Francis scrubbed her face. “This is because of me? Jackson is in trouble because of me?”

  “Mrs. Francis, this isn’t your doing, but do you know why she was trying to reach you?”

  Instead of answering, Mrs. Francis pushed herself up, and Elizabeth stood to help her. She watched her walk from the room, and Elizabeth looked to Camille, the rims of her eyes were red, her grandmother’s story taking its toll. Mrs. Francis returned holding a medium-sized white plastic storage bin. She ignored Elizabeth’s request for assistance and plopped down in her chair, setting the box in her lap.

  She removed the lid and began riffling through a collection of photos, children’s artwork, handmade cards, and other mementos from Jackson’s and Camille’s childhood. She pulled out a black box and caressed the top. “She gave this to me when I left. She said it would be important someday. I honestly don’t know why I kept it.”