Dead to Rights

by Jack Patterson

  Kelly perked up. “The problem in this case is you’re thinking like a deductive journalist instead of an inductive one.”

  Cal shot her a glance. “Deduction is the only way to definitively prove something.”

  “Exactly,” she said, raising her finger. “The key word there is definitively. If you’re going to raise doubt, you don’t have to have lock solid proof. The prosecution didn’t, did they?”

  “The jury thought the prosecution’s proof was beyond the reasonable doubt clause.”

  “Again, that’s what they thought. All you have to do is find a thread to pull on in order to create reasonable doubt in the minds of your readers—and maybe enough that The Innocence Alliance will take on Drake’s case.”

  Cal shook his head. “I’m not sure I can do that, Kelly.”

  “Why not? An innocent man may die.”

  “Or a murderer may walk free. So far, all I have are my own hunches that Sloan’s team conducted a shoddy investigation. But in the end, their conclusion that Drake was the killer may be right.”

  “Honey, where there’s smoke, there’s fire.”

  “Yeah, but just because smoke is billowing over your head doesn’t mean you started it.”

  Kelly nodded imperceptibly. “You have a point.”

  Cal wheeled their car onto Pirate Drive at 2:45 p.m. and found a spot in the Pickett County High parking lot. They checked in at the front office and received an escort to the football field where head football coach, Cecil Faris, was getting ready for spring practice.

  “Coach Faris,” Cal said as they approached, “might I have a minute of your time?”

  Faris wore a wide smile blemished only by the lump of tobacco wedged between his bottom lip and gum. He looked down to his right and spewed a stream of amber saliva onto the ground.

  “What can I do ya for?” Faris asked, offering his hand.

  Cal and Kelly both shook his hand.

  “Are you two from Atlanta down here to cover the fastest receiver in next year’s recruiting class? Clarence Bailey is the real deal. I saw him run down a rabbit once.”

  Cal chuckled. “No, you’ve got us confused with someone else. We’re here from The Seattle Times, and we’re working on a story about Isaiah Drake.”

  Faris took his baseball cap off and scratched the top of his head before wiping his face with his hand. He repositioned his hat and stared blankly at the bleachers behind Cal and Kelly.

  “I’d rather talk about the Bailey kid. Much better story.”

  “Frankly, I would, too, Coach,” Cal said. “But, unfortunately, my assignment revolves around Drake. He’s almost out of appeals, and I’m trying to write a story about how this all happened.”

  Faris sighed and crossed his arm. He barked out a few commands to the straggling line of players filtering onto the field. Seemingly ignoring Cal’s request, Faris looked over his shoulder and spoke to his guests.

  “Bailey’s already in the clubhouse ready to go,” Faris said with a wry smile. “Probably because he cut his last period class, but who are we kiddin’? He’s gonna play in the NFL one day, and it won’t matter how much world history he knows. Nobody’s gonna care if he knows Bonaparte from Washington when he’s racking up points for everyone’s fantasy league teams and winning games for his coach. He’s gonna be bigger than Calvin Johnson.”

  “Johnson was actually smart and talented,” Cal said. “I wrote a piece on his humanitarian efforts and how he used his engineering skills to craft a toilet using native building materials for less than a hundred bucks.”

  Faris waved him off. “Either way, all of that is far more interesting than talking about Isaiah Drake’s story. Maybe I can send you back with something else your editor will like.”

  “Nice try,” Cal said. “If you don’t want to talk about it, I understand. But I thought you might be a great source since you coached Drake . . . and Jordan Hayward.”

  Faris froze and slowly turned his full attention to Cal. “What does Hayward have to do with any of this?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to find out,” Cal said.

  “We think he might be involved in one way or another,” Kelly said.

  Faris laughed. “Nobody on this team wasted more talent than Hayward. The boy couldn’t even write his own name without help until the eighth grade. I can’t see him being smart enough to pull off an elaborate plot like that by himself.”

  “So, you’re suggesting if he did it, he may have had help.”

  Faris shrugged. “Maybe, but don’t go putting words in my mouth.” He spit another stream of tobacco juice into the grass.

  “I think that’d be rather difficult around here,” Kelly said. “You don’t have the Pickett County accent.”

  “Why?” Faris asked, breaking into a soft laugh. “You can understand me?”

  Kelly nodded. “I’ve lived in Georgia before and have struggled to hear certain accents, but I eventually get it. Yours, however, doesn’t match everyone else’s.”

  “I moved down here from Pennsylvania more than twenty years ago and never left.”

  Cal gestured toward the can of snuff Faris held in one hand while pinching out some moist tobacco leaves.

  “The accent may have escaped you, but the tradition of coaching and chewing didn’t.”

  Faris winked at Cal. “That’s a universal practice for football coaches.” Faris clapped his hands together. “Now, if you folks don’t have any more questions, I’ve got a practice to run.”

  “Okay, before we go, I actually do have a few more quick questions for you,” Cal said.

  “Make it quick.”

  “Can you tell me about Hayward and Drake’s relationship when they were in school? Friends? Enemies? Just teammates?”

  “Just two talented kids playing on the same team. I know they hung out together a little bit here and there off the field. But they were both decent back in the day. Neither one of them got into too much trouble.”

  “So, if Drake didn’t do it, who did? Hayward with some help?”

  “Now you’re asking me to make a call on these two young men and accuse one of them as a murderer. I just won’t do it. I don’t think either one of them did it.”

  Cal scribbled down a couple of notes on his pad.

  “Think or know?”

  “You never really do know about people. But I will say justice isn’t always meted out properly in Pickett.”

  “What do you mean?” Kelly asked.

  Faris turned toward her. “I mean, someone always has to get a pound of flesh. And some of the time, people are so mad that they don’t care about who’s pound of flesh it is. They just want the pound. And when it’s the sheriff’s beautiful daughter who was beloved by most everyone around here, two pounds of flesh might even be extracted.”

  “I’d say it was more than that with Drake getting sentenced to death,” Cal said.

  “On that point, I’ll agree with you. But it may have been another case of good ole Pickett justice. I think there were plenty of other people they could’ve pinned Susannah’s murder on. Why Drake was the target is a question that eludes me to this day.”

  “Care to venture a guess?”

  Faris shook his head. “Too many suspects to sort through. And I certainly wouldn’t want any of my players, past or present, to think I’m casting aspersions on them, if you know what I mean. It might be me who ends up floating as gator bait in the Okefenokee.”

  Cal offered his hand to Faris, and they shook before departing.

  “Thank you for your time, Coach Faris,” Cal said.

  Cal and Kelly hadn’t gone more than ten yards before Faris hustled up to them.

  “One more question for you,” he said.

  “What’s that?”

  “Have you looked into Jacob Boone yet? If I were you, that’s a good place to start. He’d be my suspect with or without Hayward.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “You’re the investigative journalist,” Fa
ris said. “You figure it out.”

  CHAPTER 17

  WHEN CAL AND KELLY SWUNG by The Searchlight’s office, they found it nearly deserted except for the chipper cleaning lady. Cal was almost certain she was dancing as she vacuumed the floor. When she spun around and realized she’d been caught, her face flushed red.

  “Can I help you?” she asked as she removed her ear buds.

  “Yes,” Cal said. “We were looking for Larry Arant. Is he available?”

  “I’m sorry, but everyone is on assignment at the moment. I was told to tell anyone who came in here to check back in an hour or so.”

  “We were just hoping to go through the archives for a little research,” Kelly said.

  The woman shook her head. “You won’t find anything like that here. This place isn’t big enough. You’ll find everything you’re looking for at the library.”

  She didn’t wait for another response, jamming her ear buds back into place before resuming her cleaning duties, albeit with far less dancing.

  Cal looked at Kelly. “To the library it is.”

  ***

  THE PICKETT COUNTY LIBRARY appeared to be one of the newer government buildings around town. It had a clean brick facade along with a bronze statue of Carl Pickett, the man who founded the city in 1803. Cal stopped to read the plaque that explained how Pickett had moved to the area from Cambridge, England, and settled the small farming community. He opened trade with local native Americans and created a supply company for other farmers. However, in 1842, Pickett mysteriously disappeared and was never seen or heard from again.

  Cal chuckled and pointed to the last line of the plaque. Kelly didn’t find it nearly as amusing as he did.

  “I don’t get it,” she said. “What’s so funny?”

  “He went missing. Maybe it was the Marsh Monster.”

  “Oh, stop it, Cal. You can be so ridiculous sometimes.”

  “No, no. Think about it.”

  Kelly rolled her eyes and nodded toward the door. “Are we going in here or not?”

  Cal turned serious. “Depends on if the Marsh Monster is in there or not,” he deadpanned.

  “You’re insufferable.”

  “Didn’t you see the motto on the website? ‘You can check a book in, but you can’t check out.’”

  “Oh, Cal. Come on.”

  Inside the library, Cal and Kelly were greeted by a rosy-faced woman who appeared to be in her fifties with curly hair that was turning gray. The nameplate labeled Mrs. Louise Kirkwood rested at the edge of the desk in front of her.

  “Good afternoon,” she said. “Can I help you two?”

  “I’m looking for a book on how to keep your husband from telling bad jokes,” Kelly cracked.

  Mrs. Kirkwood stood up and started to walk around the desk.

  “That’s not a request we get every day, but we do have some books over in our relationship section that might—”

  “I’m sorry. I was just teasing. A little joke between me and my husband.”

  The woman stopped. “Oh, I see. Sorry. I never like to assume anyone is joking when they enter our library. People don’t typically do that in here.”

  “I know, I know. It wasn’t appropriate. I understand.”

  Mrs. Kirkwood crossed her arms and sighed. “So, what do you want?”

  “We want to see some copies of The Searchlight from spring 2004.”

  Mrs. Kirkwood’s eyes widened as she studied Cal and Kelly more closely. “Follow me.”

  Mrs. Kirkwood led them to a small room in the back that contained a microfiche machine.

  “Whoa, microfiche?” Cal said. “I didn’t know this was still a thing.”

  “It’s the most space-saving way to keep our newspapers,” Mrs. Kirkwood said. “This room may not look very big, but it could contain several centuries of The Searchlight in that filing cabinet alone if everything was placed on microfiche. Maybe one day, Mr. Arant will pony up for an archive for The Searchlight’s website. Until then, this is your best bet.”

  Cal and Kelly settled into seats next to Mrs. Kirkwood as she demonstrated how the machine worked. Then she removed files from the time of the murder and placed one of the microfiche sheets on the magnifier.

  “So, what exactly are you doing here in Pickett?” she asked.

  “Is it that obvious that we’re not from around here?” Kelly asked, resisting the urge to put on her fake southern accent.”

  “Very,” Mrs. Kirkwood said. “But I can’t quite place where you are from? Canada, maybe.”

  “Close,” Cal said. “We’re from Seattle, and we’re working on a story about Isaiah Drake.”

  Mrs. Kirkwood nodded knowingly but remained tight-lipped. She stood up and yielded her seat to Kelly, who eagerly began to scroll through the paper.

  “What should I be looking for?” Kelly asked.

  “Anything about Jacob Boone,” Cal said.

  “Jacob Boone?” asked Mrs. Kirkwood, who appeared taken aback by the name.

  “Yes,” Cal said. “Is there something we should know about him?”

  “What did you say you were doing here again?” Mrs. Kirkwood asked.

  Cal peered hard at the tiny lettering on the screen. “We’re working on a story for The Seattle Times about Isaiah Drake.”

  “Then why in the world would you be looking into Jacob Boone? What could he possibly have to do with it?”

  “Just following a hunch,” Cal said.

  Before Mrs. Kirkwood could protest any more, Cal almost jumped out of his seat with excitement.

  “Ah-ha! There you are. Exactly what we were looking for. Read this, Kelly.”

  Kelly cleared her throat and read a photo cutline:

  Jacob Boone collects trash along U.S. Highway 1 on Monday. Boone, who only spent three months in prison out of a seven-year sentence, was released early last week on the condition of giving twenty hours per week for the next two years for community service. He will remain on probation for the duration of his original sentence.

  “I’ve never seen a paper use a photo to report this kind of information,” Cal said.

  “Welcome to Pickett,” Mrs. Kirkwood said. “Around here, we don’t always do things like everybody else.”

  “So, what does this have to do with anything?” Kelly asked.

  Cal turned to the librarian. “Mrs. Kirkwood, who prosecuted most of the crimes around here during that time?”

  “Susannah Sloan, of course. She handled everything. Didn’t matter what it was. It wasn’t like she was that busy. Pickett isn’t exactly a hotbed of criminal activity. Honestly, that’s why Susannah’s death was so shocking.”

  Cal turned to Kelly. “Susannah tries to put Jacob Boone away for seven years and fails. Maybe Boone goes after her for revenge.”

  Mrs. Kirkwood started to snicker.

  “I’m sorry. Did I say something funny?” Cal asked.

  Mrs. Kirkwood shook her head. “It sounded like you were trying to pin Susannah’s murder on Jacob Boone.”

  Cal dug in his pocket for a quarter to make a copy of the paper. “Well, maybe not pin it on Boone, but at least come up with an alternative theory as to who actually killed Susannah.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Murphy, but you’ll be spinning your wheels if you think you’re going to find someone else who killed that poor girl.”

  “Why’s that?” Kelly asked.

  “Because we all know Isaiah did it.”

  “What else did everyone know?” Cal asked.

  “Well, maybe not everyone knew this, but it was common knowledge that Susannah and Jordan Hayward were engaged in some”—Mrs. Kirkwood paused to deliberately clear her throat—“extracurricular activities, if you will.”

  Cal stared at her wide-eyed. “While she was still engaged to Drake?”

  Mrs. Kirkwood nodded emphatically. “Supposedly, Susannah broke it off about a week before Isaiah came back to town, but the rumor was Jordan was torn up about it all.”

  “So, why
wouldn’t people think Jordan did it?”

  “Jordan might be a pot head, but he’s no killer.”

  Kelly turned off the microfiche machine and handed the sheet to Mrs. Kirkwood. “I don’t know, Mrs. Kirkwood. Passion will make you do crazy things—even kill someone over it.”

  “But to kill the woman you love?” Mrs. Kirkwood questioned. “People who knew the whole backstory could never believe Jordan would do such a thing.”

  “If this is such common knowledge, I can’t believe it wasn’t raised during the trial,” Cal said.

  Mrs. Kirkwood cocked her head to one side. “Well, I don’t know if I’d say it’s common knowledge. I do work in the library, and I hear things.”

  “I thought people were supposed to be quiet in the library,” Kelly said.

  “These new generation kids don’t quite understand such etiquette. I gave up a long time ago trying to make everyone be quiet.” She broke into a wry grin. “I hear so much these days, maybe I can turn this into a lucrative blackmail business.”

  Cal stared at her, unsure of what to say.

  “I’m teasing, you two,” she said, breaking into a hearty laugh. “I know I said the library isn’t a place where people joke around, but you should’ve seen the look on your faces.”

  Cal redirected the conversation back toward his burning question. “So, nobody in Pickett really raised the possibility that maybe Jordan Hayward killed Susannah?”

  Mrs. Kirkwood shrugged. “You might find a couple, but most people in this town believe justice was served. And it won’t be fully served until Isaiah Drake receives his punishment in full.”

  CHAPTER 18

  CAL AND KELLY DECIDED to squeeze in a quick records review at the Pickett County courthouse before they wrapped up their investigation for the day. Kelly remembered something about a marriage license in the court transcripts that she wanted to look at again. Cal agreed that it couldn’t hurt to peruse the files one more time.

  On their way to the courthouse, Marsha Frost from The Innocence Alliance called Cal to check in on their progress.

  “What have you been able to find out so far?” Frost asked.

  “I think you might be able to make the case that Isaiah Drake had terrible representation if anything,” Cal said. “There’s enough reasonable doubt here that I can’t believe any jury of his peers would convict him of this crime, much less receive the death sentence.”