Mountain Justice

by Phillip W Price

  I nodded.

  The trooper smiled broadly. “I had someone tell me you could load every honest person in Gilmer County into a mini-van,” he paused for effect, “and there’d still be room for their pets and livestock.”

  We both laughed. “That’s what I’m gathering.” I wrapped my hands around the coffee cup. “I’m the new guy and haven’t pissed anybody off, yet.”

  “Give it time. If you’re going to be assigned here regularly, you have to be able to live with those folks down there.”

  I chuckled. “Well, I have managed to piss off the Sheriff. I guess that’s something.”

  The trooper smiled. “My kind of lawman.”

  I changed the subject. “I’m here to meet up with Willie Nelson. You haven’t seen him around today, have you?”

  I had barely gotten the words out when Willie pushed open the back door.

  The trooper said, with mock irritation, “Close the damn door, you damn possum po-lice. You’re lettin’ all the AC out the back door.”

  Willie didn’t miss a beat. “Go chase some taillights around a drive-thru. Maybe you can catch somebody there.”

  Willie shook hands with the trooper and then stuck his hand out to me. “Y’all gettin’ to know one another?”

  We both nodded. I held up my cup of coffee. Willie shook his head. “I bet I pay more to the coffee fund than that reprobate. He’d rather sponge off the State.”

  I shrugged. “Either way, it’s good coffee. Thanks to both of you.”

  Willie motioned me around a corner and down a dark hall. The building was finished inside with stained pine, tongue-and-groove panels. He pointed to an office, and I went in. Willie told the radio operator in a room further down the hall, “Me and this GBI man are going to be using the Post Commander’s office for a minute.”

  He turned on the light and closed the door. “What’s on your mind?”

  I sat down. “I wanted to see how things went with the SO when you told them about the white Tahoe.”

  Willie was smiling from ear to ear. “You wrecked the Sheriff’s nephew.” He sat down across the office from me. “I would say they were very suspicious of what I had to tell them. They kept asking me if I was sure it was a Tahoe. I told them that’s what it looked like. They pushed me on who I thought was driving. I told them it looked like a young kid with long hair. They didn’t seem to buy it, at first.”

  I nodded. “The Sheriff met me on the way into the courthouse this morning, and he tried to insinuate, it seemed to me, I might know something about it. Told me his Deputy had to be hospitalized.”

  Willie laughed. “That Deputy is the one I was talking to—the Sheriff’s nephew. He didn’t get a scratch, except on the side of his car. He’s dumb as a rock, and I thought I had him convinced. But the Chief Deputy, Givens, came in, and he didn’t buy it as much.”

  “But they don’t know for sure. That’s probably the best I can hope for. I think he’s the running buddy of the Deputy who tried to follow me after I left the DA’s Office this morning. I’m pretty sure I lost him.”

  “Were you sweet talking his wife, Rose?”

  “That’s Rose’s ex-husband?”

  “Yep. She told you about him I’m guessing?”

  I felt my face flush a little, but I don’t think Willie noticed.

  “I also met Judge Pelfrey. What kind of fellow is he?”

  Willie looked serious. “One to steer clear of. He has a lot of power in this circuit and knows how to use it. His power base is in Gilmer, but it extends up to Tennessee and down to Atlanta. Other than the former Speaker of the House, he is the most powerful man in this area.”

  “Is his power political or financial?” I asked.

  Willie thought about that for a minute. “I guess you could say both. He has a fortune in land he owns. And his law practice brings in a ton of money, I’m sure.”

  I was confused. “He can’t still practice law, can he?”

  Willie shook his head. “No, but his daughter took up the practice when the Judge was appointed to the bench. Everybody says she is being groomed to take his place when he retires.”

  “Any skeletons in his closet that you know of?”

  “Probably,” Willie replied. “He has been involved in every major decision in this whole area. He sticks his nose and money into elections to get the people he wants in power. Like that hammerhead Sheriff in Gilmer. Judge Pelfrey keeps his fat out of the fire every way he can.”

  “That’s not a surprise. The Judge and Sheriff were talking in the lobby of the courthouse. I guess that’s a routine thing.”

  “They turn up a lot together. If there is a hot supper anywhere in the area, the Sheriff drives the Judge. The Sheriff is supposed to be the designated driver, but they both are usually blitzed when they leave. I keep trying to gas up one of these Troopers to catch him. They’re all afraid the Judge would get them transferred away from their home district. Can’t say I can blame them.”

  I couldn’t argue. I wondered if that was the reason I was here. If things went bad, I could be shuttled off to some office down south.

  “And don’t forget the Judge’s daughter. They say she is hell on wheels. Been through a few husbands. Stays slim on the Jennie Crank diet.”

  I was surprised. “You think she does meth?”

  Willie shook his head. “Hell, no. I don’t think that at all. And don’t put that in your report. It’s just everyone else in town talks about her having meth parties and running with a rough crowd.”

  “Well, that’s sure good information to have,” I said.

  Willie seemed to be thinking about something. “Have you figured out where the money is going?”

  “Not a clue, but the suspect list is starting to take shape.”

  Willie smiled. “Do I get credit if I can guess the top two?”

  “Only if you guess the Sheriff and the Judge.”

  He laughed. “I would say about everybody in the courthouse would be on the short list.”

  I nodded. “You’ve been around here long enough to know who went into office in debt and is now riding high. Who would you look at, if you were me?”

  Willie laughed out loud. “If I was you, I’d apply to the DNR. Sounds like you could end up working in the swamps, one way or another.”

  I didn’t bother to respond.

  Willie continued. “Well, the Commissioners aren’t that well off, unless you count the chairman. He was not rich before he came into office, but he wasn’t poor either. But it sure looks like he has enjoyed good fortune since getting into public office.”

  “Did you know he, the Sheriff, and the Judge sit on the Water and Sewage Authority?”

  Willie seemed puzzled. “I don’t know that I knew there was such an authority. I didn’t think those folks could be getting another government check.”

  “Apparently, an authority is some kind of back door way of getting paid. I’m going to do some checking around on that. But I’d be willing to bet they wouldn’t let their participation be known if there was any chance of them getting in legal trouble.”

  “Well, is there anything I can do to move things along?” Willie asked.

  I shook my head. “Nothing I can think of now. But try to go by the SO, and keep your ear to the ground.”

  He looked angry. “Is that some kind of Native American thing you’re throwing out there?”

  I was startled. Then he said, “Just screwing with you.”

  I smiled. “I usually pick up on that kind of stuff faster.”

  “Don’t feel bad. Most people forget my heritage until they want a discount when they go to the casinos in Cherokee, North Carolina.”

  “You can do that?”

  “No, but it doesn’t stop people from asking.”

  I left on that note.

  The next item on my agenda was to find the dope dealer that Harris had been trying to introduce me to back when I was undercover. I had looked all through the investigative notes I had and fi
nally found the name I was looking for. The meth dealer in question was a worm named Brandon Fisher. Fisher was a frequent flyer with the Georgia Department of Corrections.

  I checked with his Probation Officer and got an address in Fannin County, near the Hells Holler community. I got out the map Willie had given me and made my way out of Blue Ridge toward the northeast. Based on the highway map, I was going to a place where the sun didn’t shine.

  I followed the winding roads out toward the community of Epworth, and then kept following the curving roads deeper and deeper into the wilderness. I had been driving for about twenty minutes when I came on the address I was given.

  I had stopped in the road in front of a single-wide mobile home. The trailer sat near the road, and the front yard was covered in appliances and car parts. A pretty good indication this was a meth house. One car in the yard that doesn’t run indicates a meth user. Five cars in the yard that don’t run is a sure sign of a meth dealer. I counted seven cars in various states of disassembly.

  There was an old model Chevy pickup in front of the place that looked like it was able to run. It had a current Georgia license plate on the back. I tried to call GSP Blue Ridge to run the tag, but I was in a deep hollow and wasn’t making radio contact.

  I thought about going back to town and getting someone to come back with me, but it seemed like that would tie me up the rest of the afternoon. I decided to plunge on in. I parked my Expedition behind his truck, blocking it in. I grabbed my pad, made sure I had a pen in my pocket, and slid out of the seat to the ground. At the last minute, I reached into the door pocket and stuck an extra Glock magazine in my left-hand pocket and a set of handcuffs in my hip pocket.

  I was careful to look out for any dogs around the house, but I didn’t hear barking. I had been nipped at a couple of times and seen officers bitten by the kinds of junkyard dogs that meth dealers preferred.

  I worked my way through the washers and engine blocks to the front door. I was about to knock on the front door when a big man stuck his head out. He was dressed in a pair of blue jeans and work boots. He actually looked over my head at first and then seemed startled that I was standing right in front of him.

  He tried to cover his surprise. “Who the fuck are you?”

  “Who do you think I am, Fisher? A guy in a coat and tie. I’m not here to sell cookies.”

  He backed up and tried to close the door. I rushed up the steps and forced my way inside.

  “You can’ do that,” Fisher said. “You got no right to come in my house.”

  “Are you Brandon Fisher?” I asked. I had seen his mug shot and met him undercover twice. It was a rhetorical question.

  He was a big man, well over six feet tall, and more muscled up than most meth heads. He had a few “jailhouse tattoos” on his arms. He was tanned from working outside, and had less tattoos than I expected. I had only seen him in the winter, when his body was mostly covered. The only thing that was a typical characteristic of a meth user was the missing teeth in the front.

  “No. I’m not. I’m, uh, his cousin Jimmy Stone.” He was a big hairy mess. And the effects of the meth made his face look like a ferret.

  I shook my head. “Brandon, it is a felony to lie to a GBI Agent. You can get up to five years for that. Now, do you want to start over?”

  I heard movement behind Brandon and saw another big man come out of the back of the trailer. He had been in the back bedroom, from the looks of things. He lumbered into the room, giving me the once-over. What were the odds I would run up on two meth heads who weren’t wormy little guys?

  “How ’bout we just stomp your ass, instead of answerin’ your damned questions,” the new arrival grumbled. He wanted to make himself known, I guess.

  “Yeah,” Fisher said. He was moving closer to me.

  I dropped my hand to the butt of my gun. “I’ll shoot both of you graveyard dead if you take another step.”

  “You can’t do that. We ain’t got no guns.” Fisher blustered. He was working hard to convince himself that I would just go away. He was wrong.

  I didn’t move. “You will have by the time help gets here. I’m not taking any crap off of you boys. You want to stay on this side of the grass, you shut up and sit down.”

  Fisher stood still for a minute, then he shrugged and moved to a sofa covered with dirty clothes and fast-food wrappers. I looked the newcomer over, and then I waited. My hand hadn’t left my Glock.

  Finally, he looked over at Fisher. “I ain’t got no dog in this fight. I’m gonna leave you boys to your business.”

  I had more to deal with than I needed, so I let him leave. I pulled a kitchen chair out, turned the back to face Fisher, and straddled it. The chair back would give me a little protection if he decided to be stupid.

  “Do you remember me?” I asked.

  He stared, thinking harder than his capacity. He squinted and turned his head around, trying to see me from different directions, I guessed. He seemed to give up, and he said, “Don’t recall you. Did you arrest me some time?”

  I shook my head. “I wanted to. Justin Harris introduced me to you. I planned to buy a couple of ounces of meth from you.”

  He narrowed his eyes. Then he nodded. “Narc,” he spit it out.

  I smiled. “Yep.”

  “I ain’t got to tell you nothin’ without my mouthpiece here.”

  I squinted at him. “You an American?” He nodded. “You over eighteen years?” He nodded again, but a little less sure where I was going.

  “Then, you have the right to talk to me without a Lawyer present. In our country, you can exercise all your rights. One of them is to decide who you want to talk to.”

  “What do you mean? I thought my Lawyer said I didn’t have to talk to nobody, ’less I wanted to.”

  “And that is the God’s truth. But what he didn’t tell you is that you can talk to someone if you want to. He can’t make up your mind for you. And you look to be a full-grown man.”

  The meth smell coming from his skin was strong. He could be a meth cook for sure, I thought. He looked all around the room, and then he closed his eyes. I thought he was shutting me out, but I think he just didn’t want to see what was happening.

  “So, what does the narc want to know?” he said.

  “Me. I want to talk about me.”

  His eyes came open slowly. His pupils were as small as a gnat’s. “What about you?”

  “How did you know I was a narc?” I asked.

  His eyes darted away. I didn’t expect the first answer to be truthful, anyway. You always have to give them a couple of chances. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he ventured.

  I frowned, mostly for effect. “Sure you do. How many times have you been tipped that you’re about to sell to a GBI Agent? It couldn’t have happened that often.”

  Fisher squirmed in his seat. The couch was getting smaller and smaller. He leaned away from me. “I don’t—”

  I cut him short. “You have one more chance to tell me the truth. After that, I’m taking you to jail for lying to me. I didn’t drive out here to waste my time. Do you understand me?”

  He nodded and licked his lips. “Nobody called me and told me nothin’.”

  I stood up and pulled the cuffs out of my pocket. I pushed the cuff through the latch, making a distinctive sound. “Stand up,” I said.

  “Okay, I got a call from the Sheriff of Gilmer County. He told me I was being set up. That’s the gospel truth.” He had both hands out, palms up.

  I shook my head. “Not possible. The Sheriff didn’t know I was in town.”

  Fisher nodded. “He said you had to get permission for Harris to work, ’cause he was on probation.”

  What he was saying was true. The GBI required Agents to get permission through the probation officer for anyone on supervised release to be able to actively work with us. But I doubted a probation officer would tell anyone in the Sheriff’s Office about any deals.

  “What did they tell you
?” I asked.

  “Just said he was snitching for the GBI. Don’t do nothin’ with him.”

  That seemed like a lot of detail for the Sheriff to get wind of. Then, I thought through the process. An Agent went to the person’s Probation Officer, in this case Harris’ Probation Officer who worked out of Fannin County. The Probation Officer wrote up an application for Harris to work with the GBI to do specific things. Sometimes, the PO would lay out the targets involved, particularly if the target is on probation.

  Once the application was completed, it had to be presented to the sentencing Judge to either approve or disapprove. I was willing to bet the sentencing Judge for Harris was Judge Pelfrey.

  “Why was he killed, then?” I asked.

  “Hell, I don’t know. ’Cause he was a snitch. Snitches get stitches.”

  I leaned against the chair. “He got more than stitches. He got a shotgun to the face.”

  Fisher shrugged.

  “You heard he was dead?”

  He nodded. “Everybody knew the snitch got offed.”

  “Who offed him?” I asked.

  “Don’t know nothin’ ’bout that.”

  “You didn’t hear anything on the street about who popped him?”

  Fisher shook his head. I didn’t expect him to say much about Harris, and I felt sure he already knew about his murder. I thought about another way to get at the story.

  “Who do you sell to?” I asked.

  “I don’t sell to nobody.”

  I didn’t figure he would go for that, but it was worth a shot. “Back then, who were you dealing to?” I pushed.

  Another shrug. “Just folks here and there. I quit all that now, though.”

  “Did you supply Linda Pelfrey?”

  His eyes flew open. He was looking in every direction except mine, and his mouth was working like a fish out of water. “No way! She was my Lawyer.”

  Suddenly, we were interrupted by a knock on the door. I turned to see a Fannin County Deputy stick his head into the trailer. He looked around the room, then looked at me. “You the GBI Agent?” the Deputy asked.

  I started to be a smartass and ask him what gave it away. Then, I thought better of it. “That would be me. What brings you out here looking for me, Deputy?”