by Scott Pratt
“I think I just heard him threaten you,” Judge Langley said after Snodgrass stalked out.
“It’s not the first time.”
I sat down in the chair across from the judge with a loud sigh.
“What’s the matter?” the judge said. “You won. Seems to me you should be smiling.”
“I just had a thought that scared the hell out of me.”
“Must have been some thought,” Langley said. “Your reputation is that you’re not scared of anything, including judges.”
I smiled. Langley had turned out to be a rarity—a good judge and a decent human being.
“I was thinking that less than two years ago, I was doing the same thing Snodgrass is doing: defending lying scumbags like Trent. I guarantee Trent told Snodgrass he’d never touched those girls. Then Snodgrass comes into court and gets ambushed by something like the diary. It’s scary enough to think that I used to do that kind of stuff, but you know what scares me even more?”
Langley shook his head, a half smile on his face.
“What scares me even more is the thought that if I hadn’t quit doing it, I would’ve ended up just like Snodgrass.”
Wednesday, October 29
The transfer hearing in juvenile court for Levi Barnett was straightforward and uneventful. Fraley and a couple of TBI lab experts took the witness stand and laid out the evidence we had against him—his shoes perfectly matched footprints left at both crime scenes, and his fingerprints were on both of the guns found in Boyer’s glove compartment as well as on the steering wheel of the Becks’ van. Fraley had sent the prints from the van to AFIS early on, but Barnett’s prints hadn’t made it into the system. The judge, after a short speech, surrendered jurisdiction to the adult court. Barnett, swarthy, stocky, acne scarred, and dressed in a pair of jail-issued orange coveralls, sat stoically through the hearing. He didn’t utter a sound, not even to his court-appointed lawyer.
The following Wednesday, Boyer and Barnett were scheduled for their first public appearance in criminal court. Barnett was to be arraigned again, this time as an adult, the judge would appoint him another lawyer, and a trial date would be set.
As I drove towards the courthouse in Jonesborough early Wednesday morning, I passed a convenience store about a quarter mile from the courthouse. In the parking lot less than thirty feet from the road, someone had constructed a gallows. Hanging from the two nooses were dummies with bright white faces, black wigs, and black clothing. I knew both Boyer and Barnett would pass the spot on their way to the courthouse from the jail, and I took some small pleasure in thinking about their reactions.
The scene on Main Street outside the courthouse was chaotic. I counted eight news vans and trucks already parked in the street. As I passed by the front of the courthouse, I saw at least fifty people milling around on the steps and the sidewalk. Court didn’t convene for at least an hour. I’d done defense work in Washington County for more than a decade, and I’d never seen anything even remotely similar. I circled the courthouse looking for a parking spot. There were none. I turned back onto Main Street and looked in both directions. The street was packed with cars. I finally found a spot nearly a quarter mile west of the courthouse and pulled in.
I walked south one block, headed east, and managed to make it unnoticed to the back door of the county assessor’s office on the ground floor. From there, I took the steps up to my office. Fraley was already there, leaning back in a chair with his legs crossed and his feet up on my desk. We talked for a while, mostly about Caroline, until it was almost time to go down to the courtroom.
“Ready to meet the soldiers of Satan?” Fraley said.
“You don’t really believe that garbage, do you?”
“What do you believe, counselor? Are you a religious man?”
“None of your business.”
“So you’re not a religious man.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to. If you were religious, you’d have said so.”
I scowled at Fraley. I liked him and I’d grown to respect him, but we weren’t so close that I felt comfortable talking personal religious philosophy with him.
“It’s all right,” Fraley said. “I’d rather have an atheist prosecuting this case. I think it would be easy to lose your focus if you were worried about what God wanted you to do.”
“I’m not an atheist,” I said.
“Don’t tell me you’re one of those gutless agnostics,” Fraley said. “One of those pussies who doesn’t believe in God but doesn’t have the balls to say so.”
I looked up at the clock. Almost nine.
“Let’s get this over with,” I said.
I stuck my head into Lee Mooney’s office on the way out.
“Aren’t you coming?” I said.
“Nope,” Mooney said, not bothering to look up from the newspaper he was reading, “it’s your show.”
The biggest case in the history of the district was unfolding, and Mooney had become like a ghost in the office, appearing and disappearing seemingly at will. He was keeping his distance from me, the case, and the media. I wondered whether he was showing political restraint or whether he was just plain scared.
Fraley and I took the back steps to the second floor and walked down a private hallway into the courtroom. The place reminded me of the day Bates had packed the courtroom. Every seat in the gallery was occupied, and people were standing against the walls. Television cameras and reporters were crammed into the jury box like frat boys in a phone booth.
There were two lawyers at the defense table, Jim Beaumont and Herb Dunbar. Dunbar, who was being appointed to represent Levi Barnett, was a bellicose bully with a belly that stuck out a full foot in front of him. His clothes were always too small, and his face was the shape and size of a serving platter. He wore his strawberry-blond hair in an Afro, and his complexion was the color of red zinfandel wine. He’d been known to step on opposing lawyers’ feet during bench conferences, to belabor minutiae to the point of filibuster, to drive judges and other lawyers nearly insane with his constant bickering. I once heard him exclaim that he believed his job as a defense attorney was to “create a mountain out of every molehill and force the state to come and fight on my mountain,” and from everything I’d seen and heard, he stubbornly clung to his creed.
The door to Glass’s office opened and the bailiff hailed court into session. Glass took his seat and snarled at the bailiffs, “Bring in the defendants!”
Boyer and Barnett walked in ringed by sheriff’s deputies, and the courtroom went dead still. It was the first time I’d seen Boyer in person, and the first thing I noticed was how young and frail he looked. He was walking with his head slumped forward, eyes on the ground in front of him. He was around six feet tall, slight and pale, with straight black hair that fell to his shoulders. The hair had been dyed; the roots were light brown. His face was angular, his upper lip paper thin. There was a small dimple in his chin. As he walked past me to the podium in the short-sleeved jail jumpsuit, I could see pink scars the length of both his forearms.
Barnett was at least six inches shorter than Boyer, with a thick neck and long arms that, like Boyer’s, were covered with pink scars. He leaned forward when he walked, his arms hanging loosely, like a gorilla’s. Unlike Boyer, however, Barnett wasn’t looking at the floor. He glared defiantly around the courtroom as he plodded towards the front. Judge Glass stared down from the bench as the attorneys scurried forward to the podium to stand next to their clients.
“State versus Samuel Boyer and Levi Barnett,” the judge said. “Case number 40,665. Let me see the indictments.”
A clerk handed the thick document to the judge and he glanced over it.
“You’re both charged with six counts of first-degree murder by premeditation. In the alternative, the state has charged you with six counts of first-degree felony murder. You’re also charged with five counts of kidnapping, one count of robbery, and one count of burglary. Is this a deat
h penalty case, Mr. Dillard?”
I nodded in his direction. “It is, Judge. The state is seeking the death penalty against Mr. Boyer. Mr. Barnett is a juvenile.” I never dreamed I’d hear myself utter those words.
“Filed your notice?”
“We have.”
“Fine. I’ve appointed Mr. Beaumont to represent Mr. Boyer and Mr. Dunbar to represent Mr. Barnett. Since Mr. Boyer’s already been arraigned, I’ll ask Mr. Dunbar: Do you waive the formal reading of the indictment?”
Herb Dunbar cleared his throat. “We do, Your Honor.”
“How does your client plead?”
“Not guilty, but we’d like—”
Suddenly, Barnett turned his back on the judge and began to chant something, quietly at first. I couldn’t understand him, but then Boyer slowly turned and joined him. Boyer looked tentative, as though he was unsure about what he was doing. But he quickly settled into it and the words became loud and clear. It was the same phrase that had been carved into Bjorn Beck’s forehead.
“Ah Satan, ah Satan, ah Satan, ah Satan, ah Satan, ah Satan …”
Both of them appeared to be staring at the same spot in the back of the courtroom. The looks on their faces were emotionless, their voices monotone.
“Ah Satan, ah Satan, ah Satan, ah Satan, ah Satan, ah Satan …”
“What the … ? What are they saying?” Judge Glass was sputtering. “Stop that! Stop now or I’ll have you removed from the courtroom!”
Beaumont backed quickly away from his client, but Dunbar stupidly reached up and tried to put his hand over Barnett’s mouth. I saw Barnett smile as he bit down hard on one of Dunbar’s stubby fingers. Dunbar howled and jerked his hand away.
“Goddammit!” he cried. “Goddammit! The son of a bitch bit me!”
“Get them out of here!” Judge Glass was standing, retreating towards the steps that led down away from the bench. I could see fear in his eyes, and I didn’t blame him. There was something about the tone of their voices, the robotic manner in which they spoke, the continuous use of the word Satan. Nobody moved. It was as if no one were breathing.
Several bailiffs converged on Boyer and Barnett, grabbed them by the arms, and began to lead them out of the courtroom. As they did so, both boys continued to chant, and they continued to look at the same spot in the courtroom. I followed their eyes and almost gasped. Standing in the back against the wall was a tall, redheaded young woman in a black leather jacket. It was Natasha.
The chanting faded steadily as the bailiffs led the defendants off down the hallway outside the courtroom. Beaumont and Dunbar had moved to the defense table. Dunbar was wrapping a handkerchief around his finger; Barnett had bitten him so hard he was bleeding. I heard him mutter something to Beaumont about a tetanus shot, but Beaumont looked too stunned to respond.
There were at least a hundred people in the courtroom, and it was so quiet I could hear the ancient clock on the wall above me ticking. It took Judge Glass a couple of minutes to regain his composure. Finally, he looked down at Beaumont and Dunbar and said, “I’ve been on this bench for forty years, and I’ve never seen anything so disrespectful. The young people in this nation are going to hell in a handbasket, I tell you. Hell in a handbasket.”
“Judge, we can do the scheduling without them,” I said.
“I know that!” he snapped. “Don’t you think I know that, Mr. Dillard? Do you think you’re the only person in this room who knows what’s what?”
“I didn’t mean any disrespect. Just trying to move things along.”
The judge looked out over the crowd. “You folks came to see the show,” he said. “I guess you got your money’s worth.” He turned to his clerk. “Give me a trial date. Six months.”
As the clerk looked through her calendar, I glanced over my shoulder. Natasha was still there, and she was staring at me. I didn’t hold the gaze, but over the next several minutes, as Judge Glass set the trial date, motion deadlines, expert deadlines, and plea deadlines, I periodically looked back at her. Each time, she was looking directly at me, seemingly sneering. I felt she was trying to intimidate me, and by the time we were finished and the courtroom began to clear, I was angry. I stood motionless at the table as first the judge, then the lawyers and the crowd moved out. The reporters and camera-men were packing up their gear. I continued to look in her direction. She didn’t move.
“What are you doing?” Fraley said from over my shoulder.
“Natasha’s here.” He followed my stare.
“That’s un-fucking-believable,” he said.
“She’s been staring at me since they made their scene.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know,” I said, “but do me a favor. Shoot her if she tries to kill me.”
I started to walk towards her as the last of the crowd moved through the double doors. As I pushed through the low swinging door that separated the lawyers from the spectators, she remained perfectly still, as if she were glued to the wall, her eyes boring into me. When I was five feet away, I stopped.
“I know what you did,” I said to her. “We’ll be coming for you soon.”
Her face tightened and she moved off the wall. Her eyes were mesmerizing; I couldn’t break her stare for a full thirty seconds. She started speaking, but I couldn’t understand a word. It sounded like gibberish, but the words were being delivered with purpose, the volume steadily growing. She moved towards me. I felt a droplet of spit hit my cheek as she continued. The veins in her neck and forehead began to swell.
A strong hand closed around my bicep and pulled me in the opposite direction. I turned and realized it was Fraley. Behind him was a television camera sitting on the shoulder of a man, pointed directly at me. When I looked back, Natasha was gone.
“What did you say to her?” Fraley said as soon as I gathered my briefcase and we got out of sight of the reporters.
“I think I was trying to tell her I’m not afraid of her,” I said.
“I hate to tell you this,” Fraley said, “but it looks to me like she’s the one who’s not afraid.”
PART III
Wednesday, October 29
I made the news on the local CBS affiliate at six o’clock that night. Luckily, the cameraman hadn’t gotten there in time to record what I said to her. Caroline taped one of the newscasts, and we sat that night watching it over and over, trying to figure out what Natasha was saying. She spoke in what seemed to be a strange, guttural language, something I’d never heard.
The phone rang around seven. The caller ID was blocked, but I picked it up anyway. An unfamiliar woman’s voice on the other end asked to speak to Mr. Dillard.
“Who’s calling?” I said.
“I don’t want to tell you my name,” she said in a heavy Southern accent, “but I work with your sister at Godsey’s Insurance Agency. You need to go see her.”
“Beg your pardon? Did you say I need to go see her?”
“Yes. Right away. Tonight, if possible. And it would be best if you didn’t tell her you were coming.”
“Why? What’s wrong?”
“Please, Mr. Dillard. Please go to Sarah. She needs you.”
“Crossville’s over two hours away,” I said. “I don’t think I’d be inclined to jump in the car and go down there on the basis of an anonymous phone call.”
There was a pause at the other end. I heard her draw in a deep breath.
“She’s been injured,” she said.
“Injured? Is she all right? Has she been in an accident?”
“No, I … I … You have to promise me you won’t tell her it was someone from work who called you. She’ll know it was me.”
“What’s going on?” I said. “If she’s hurt, I want to know what happened.”
“It was Robert,” she whispered. “He beat her. He beat her up.”
Her words stung me like a swarm of bees. I knew he was wrong for her. I knew he was a hothead. I was afraid something like this might happen, but I
hadn’t had the guts to come out and say it to Sarah.
“Where is she?” I said, trying to remain calm.
“She’s at home. I just left there. It’s bad, especially her beautiful face.”
“Did she go to the hospital? Did she call the police?”
“She won’t do either one. She begged me not to call the police.”
“Do you know what happened?”
“I’ve known Robert since he was a little boy, Mr. Dillard. I’ve been working for his daddy, and his granddaddy before that, for thirty-five years. Robert’s a bad seed. He’ll do it again.”
“No, he won’t,” I said. “I can promise you that.”
I talked to her for a couple more minutes and then thanked her for calling.
“Mr. Dillard?” she said before she hung up. “I just want to tell you that Sarah is so proud of you. She brags on you all the time.”
I hung up the phone and tried to control my anger. Think, dumb-ass. Think. What should you do?
Caroline, who had started the chemotherapy treatments a couple of weeks earlier and had recovered well from the initial effects, wandered into the kitchen.
“Who was that?” she said.
“A friend of Sarah’s down in Crossville. She says Sarah’s boyfriend beat her up. She says I need to come down there tonight. Apparently it’s bad.”
“I’ve seen that look on your face before,” Caroline said. “What are you thinking about doing?”
“I was just asking myself that same question.”
“Why don’t you call the Crossville police?”
“Because they’ll go pick him up and take him to jail for twelve hours. They’ll charge him with a misdemeanor and let him out in the morning. He’ll go to court and swear he’ll never do it again, and they’ll slap him on the wrist and send him home.”
“Don’t you think he should go to jail?”
“I think he should suffer. I think he should feel the same pain he inflicted on Sarah. And I intend to make sure it happens.”
