Turning Angel

by Greg Iles

  “Yes, indeed. Put it in myself. There’s a satellite dish on the south side of the trailer. Sonny had to have that damn Internet out here. You’d know more about that than I would.”

  The trailer looks like it should be sold for scrap, but maybe it’s nicer on the inside.

  “I need to get back to the folks,” says Mr. Cross. “You take as long as you need.”

  “Is it locked?”

  “Never has been. No need out here. Protected by Smith and Wesson.”

  Of course. “What if I find something I need?”

  “Take it. Take anything you want. This was Sonny’s business, and now it’s yours. I reckon I ought to give this stuff to the sheriff, but I just don’t believe he’d do the right thing with it. You’re welcome to come and go as you please. Just honk your horn as you pass the house driving down here.” Mr. Cross offers me his hand. “Good luck to you, Mr. Cage. And keep your eyes open for those bastards who shot Sonny.”

  “I will.” I shake the giant hand, then climb out of the truck.

  Mr. Cross immediately drives away, leaving me in the shadow of the trailer. It’s an ugly thing, the kind of rig you tow behind a pickup truck. It was probably built to sleep two people, but there’s only one way to know.

  The trailer’s door has almost no weight. I pull it open and step up into the unit.

  I expected a bad smell, but a little mildew is the only odor that greets me. The interior of the trailer is a remarkable sight. The camper’s beds have been converted into worktables. A metal filing cabinet stands against one wall, and a computer glows on a Formica countertop that apparently served as Sonny’s desk. The yellow kitchen cabinets have had their doors removed and now function as bookshelves. Most of the books are criminal justice texts, but there are a couple of loose-leaf binders on the right side of the bottom shelf. Two cameras rest on the top shelf: a digital still camera with a telephoto lens, and a small Sony video camera. When I check the drawers in the kitchenette, I catch my breath. Rows of MiniDV tapes line the drawer bottoms, and they seem to be organized by date.

  Surveillance tapes.

  I can hardly contain myself. Probably the best thing to do is pack the tapes, the computer, and the binders into my car and take them home to study. If I stay here, I risk Mr. Cross changing his mind, or some other family member challenging my presence. I’ve seen enough families fight over property after a death to spend more time here than necessary.

  Two steps out of the trailer, my cell phone rings. It’s Caitlin.

  I almost don’t answer. I don’t want to lie about being here, but Caitlin wouldn’t be calling if it wasn’t important.

  “Hey,” I answer.

  “Steel yourself, Penn.”

  My first thought is Annie, then my father’s weak coronary vessels. “Tell me.”

  “The grand jury just indicted Drew for capital murder.”

  There’s a roaring in my ears that sounds like breaking surf. It’s only blood, of course, pumping under the enormous pressure generated by my clenching heart. Why the intense reaction? I knew this was coming. And I’ve heard much more devastating news in my life: verdicts rendered in death penalty cases, my father telling me that my wife died during the night. Yet somehow I sense that this indictment will set in motion unprecedented pain and suffering. Why, I don’t know. Maybe because Shad is trying Drew for the wrong reasons. Or maybe—

  “Penn? Are you there?”

  “Yes.”

  “You sound out of breath. What are you doing?”

  “That took me by surprise. I didn’t think it would happen this soon.”

  “Me, either. Where are you?”

  I close my eyes. Caitlin cannot know about the trailer or Sonny’s private stash of evidence. “Talking to the Cross family. I’m going home soon, though.”

  She says nothing. She senses something wrong, but she hasn’t enough facts to work out what it is. “Penn—”

  “Don’t worry, babe. We’ll talk later, when we have some time. I need to finish with these people now.”

  “Okay, but call me back.”

  “I will.” I pocket my phone and start jogging up the hill toward my car. I need to pack Sonny’s things and stash them in my floor safe as soon as possible.

  Then I need to talk to Quentin Avery.

  Chapter

  30

  For the first time since I met Quentin Avery, his face is taut with anxiety. The lawyer is sitting across from me in the main room of his penthouse suite at the Eola, his artificial foot resting on the floor, the bare stump of his lower leg crossed over his left knee.

  “This is fast,” Quentin ruminates, “really fast. You say Shad hand-carried the indictment over to the circuit clerk?”

  “That’s what Caitlin told me.” I spoke to Caitlin by phone again on my way from my house to the Eola, and she filled me in on the most recent developments of the case. “There are two circuit judges in this town. The system ensures randomness by simple rotation, assigning each judge every other case that’s filed. The problem is, every lawyer in town knows that. If a lawyer wants a particular judge for a case, he carries three cases to the clerk’s office. The first case he files is a stalking horse. If that case is assigned to the judge he doesn’t want, the lawyer immediately files the case he wants to steer, and it goes to the judge he does want. But if the stalking horse goes to the judge that the lawyer does want, he has to file all three cases to steer the one he cares about to the right judge.”

  “The true bills returned by a grand jury are normally filed as a group,” Quentin says. “But that’s more a matter of convenience than anything.”

  “If Shad carried Drew’s indictment over personally, he carried two other cases with him. You can bet your good foot that he’s already steered Drew’s case to Judge Arthel Minor.”

  “Then you can bet your ass that Arthel will schedule Drew’s case in the docket for the current term. The only question is how soon will it be.”

  “Four weeks or less,” I reckon. “And now that Mayor Jones has stepped down, I look for it sooner rather than later.”

  “Any sooner than two weeks,” says Quentin, “and even the man in the street will know Drew’s trial has nothing to do with justice.”

  “I’m not sure Shad’s worried about that. You said it yourself, his concern is the special election. That means making good on his promise to make the system equal, i.e., to nail a rich white man. That’s what will get Shad a unified black vote. I expect Judge Minor to move as fast as legally possible.”

  Quentin nods slowly. “Why is the white sheriff lined up with Shad and Judge Minor? Did Shad promise him the black vote in the next election?”

  “I don’t think Shad can guarantee that. I’m not sure what Billy Byrd hopes to get out of this, but it’s something. You can bank on that.”

  “We should try to find out. It might give us an advantage.”

  “I will.”

  “When will we know about the trial date?”

  “Caitlin has reporters at the circuit clerk’s office and Judge Minor’s chambers. If Arthel sets a trial date today, we’ll know about it.”

  A trace of a smile touches Quentin’s lips. “Kind of handy having the publisher of the newspaper on your side, isn’t it?”

  “It’s a two-edged sword.”

  He nods thoughtfully. “What the hell is Shad thinking? I know he has a hard-on to indict Dr. Elliott, but it’s not enough for him to want it bad. Something happened today that persuaded the grand jury to indict.”

  “The DNA must be back,” I conclude. “That’s the only explanation.”

  Quentin’s eyes narrow, and then he nods slowly. “If you pay a hefty rush fee, a private lab with a good sample can do the analysis in seventy-two hours.”

  “You’re right.”

  “Would Shad pay for that?”

  “Hell, yes. And the timing just works.”

  “That’s it, then,” says Quentin. “One of the samples matched Dr. Elliott, and
that convinced the grand jury to indict.”

  “I think there’s more. If Shad paid a private lab for a rush job, he would have had both samples analyzed, the vaginal and the rectal.” I close my eyes and try not to focus on any particular line of reasoning. “That means he’s got the data on our mystery man as well. The vaginal sample.”

  “What could Shad learn from that?” Quentin asks. “They couldn’t ID that sperm without someone to compare it to. Do you think it matched the Sayers boy? Or the fishermen maybe?”

  A small epiphany sends a tingle along my forearms. I open my eyes. “No. What Shad could learn from that second semen sample is that our mystery man wasn’t black. Ergo, that semen was not deposited by Cyrus White.”

  “Son of a bitch,” Quentin breathes. “Son of a bitch!”

  “There goes your reasonable doubt.” I take a sip of coffee from the room service tray on the table between us.

  Quentin closes his eyes and rubs the stump of his ankle. “Maybe…but maybe not.”

  “Quentin, yesterday you told me DNA was subtle science. I know juries can get bored with technical testimony. But if I’m right, this science is pretty simple and compelling. A black man didn’t rape Kate Townsend. That’s a message that black jury members will love to hear. And the location of the crime scene away from Brightside Manor already screwed your chance to paint a scenario in which Kate was murdered there by Cyrus.”

  “Goddamn it,” Quentin mutters. “What do we have that links Kate Townsend to Cyrus?”

  “I can testify that Sonny Cross told me he saw her visit Cyrus at Brightside Manor while he was conducting surveillance operations.”

  “That’s hearsay, unless you have videotape.”

  “We may have the actual surveillance tape in our possession, but I’m not sure yet. I haven’t had time to go through the tapes.”

  “That’s your first priority. Do we have anything else?”

  An image of Kate’s journal rises in my mind, but I’m still not prepared to reveal its existence. “Not at this time.” I stand and walk over to the window. “Given what we’ve deduced here, does the second semen sample still look like reasonable doubt to you?”

  “Shad’s case is still circumstantial,” Quentin says firmly. “Even Dr. Elliott’s semen in the girl’s rectum doesn’t place him at the crime scene.”

  “But his car parked in that vacant lot damn near does. Shad’s case may be circumstantial, but it just might be strong enough for a conviction. I would have gone to court with it in Houston.”

  Quentin takes a sip of coffee and makes a face. “There are only two possibilities for disaster. One, the police find physical evidence that links Dr. Elliott to the crime scene. Two, they find out that Dr. Elliott had the victim scoring dope for his wife.”

  “Which brings up an even thornier question. Do you plan to put Drew on the stand?”

  Quentin closes his eyes like a man experiencing deep internal pain.

  “If they tie him to that crime scene, and he hasn’t admitted that he was there, the jury won’t believe a thing he says after that.”

  “That’s a chance I’m going to have to take,” says Quentin. “I’m not putting him on the stand to tell the jury he found that girl dead and didn’t report it to anybody.”

  “Have you discussed this with Drew?”

  “We haven’t gotten that far.”

  “I’ll bet you any amount of money that Drew will demand to tell the jury his side of the story.”

  Quentin goes absolutely still. “Tell me he’s not that stupid.”

  “If he’s innocent, that’s what he’ll do.”

  “If the police somehow tie him to the murder scene, Shad will have to let us know that before the trial. He has to, according to the rules of discovery. If that happens, I’ll still have time to put Drew on the stand and let him tell his story. At least that’s a margin of safety.”

  “Is it? You said yourself that Shad would break the rules.”

  “If he withholds evidence, it’s grounds for a mistrial.”

  I mull this over. “You’re forgetting that Sheriff Byrd is on Shad’s side. What if Byrd were to pretend that his men found such evidence during the trial, and you hadn’t admitted Drew was at the scene? You’d be screwed. Quentin, you’re going to have to tell the truth. Drew is an innocent man whose adultery made him too afraid to report a murder. You’ve got to admit he was at the scene from the start.”

  Quentin gives me a hard look. “That’s not the road I want to take.”

  “Your client may not give you any choice.”

  The lawyer laughs bitterly. “Now I see why you brought me into this case. You know what a knucklehead your friend is.”

  I’m about to bring up another problem when my cell phone rings. It’s Caitlin.

  “What’s up?”

  “Judge Minor just set the trial date,” she says. “Next Wednesday.”

  My blood pressure plummets. “Did he make any official statement to the media?”

  “No. I got this from a guy in the circuit clerk’s office.”

  “Did you have to flirt to get it?”

  “A little.” She laughs. “This is bad for Drew, isn’t it?”

  “Not necessarily. Call me if you get anything else.” I hang up and set my phone on the coffee table.

  Quentin watches me expectantly.

  “Next Wednesday.”

  His mouth falls open. “You’re shitting me.”

  “Wednesday, baby.”

  “I’ll give Shad credit. That little son of a bitch plays hardball.”

  “I’m afraid we’ve got another problem. As soon as Drew was indicted by the grand jury, that put him into the state system. That means he has to be transferred from police custody to the sheriff’s department. The county jail. My guess is, Sheriff Byrd will move him today. He hasn’t yet, because Chief Logan promised to warn me about any problems. But we need to warn Drew.”

  “Worst-case scenario,” Quentin says.

  “Billy Byrd locks Drew into an interrogation room without either of us there and sweats him under the lights.”

  “Drew doesn’t strike me as the type who would crack under that kind of pressure.”

  “He won’t crack, but his desire to explain his innocence might cause him to make statements against his interest.”

  Quentin shakes his head. “Do you really think he’d talk to the sheriff at this point without me present?”

  “In a word? Yes.”

  “Goddamn it.” Quentin reaches down and begins strapping on his artificial foot. “I thought doctors were supposed to save lives, not put you in an early grave.”

  “I appreciate you doing this, Quentin.”

  The old lawyer looks up at me, his eyes curious. “Tell me this. Now that Doug Jones has stepped down, are you going to announce for mayor?”

  I can’t help but laugh. “My significant other is not in favor of the idea.”

  Quentin finishes with the limb and sits up. “Who wears the pants in your family, man?”

  “That depends on the issue.”

  “Well, no matter what you do, Shad has to wait until the end of the trial to announce. That’s why he’s rushing this circus, and why I’ve got less than a week to prepare for trial.”

  “Yep.”

  Quentin grins. “Ain’t politics something?”

  “Do you still feel the same about Cyrus White?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You want me not to find him?”

  Quentin folds his arms and fixes his eyes on me with unsettling intensity. “Do you really think Drew is innocent?”

  “I do.”

  “Then I’ll tell you what I want.” He picks up his car keys and jabs them at me. “I want you to find me that girl’s killer. Fast.”

  Chapter

  31

  At just after 9 p.m., I reenter Quentin’s suite, this time with Mia and a male friend of hers in tow. Quentin and Doris are sleeping in a smaller room down
the hall, so that this one can be used for business at all hours. Caitlin is spending the night at my house with Annie. I feel guilty about asking her, but it was the only way I could free Mia to work with me and also be sure that Caitlin wouldn’t discover what we were doing.

  Mia’s friend is a high school sophomore who dresses like a New York investment banker. The only openly gay student at St. Stephen’s, Lucien Morse is as slender as a sword and has short, glistening black hair. I met him only ten minutes ago, but I know one thing already—his eyes don’t remain still for longer than three seconds.

  Lucien is here to hack Kate Townsend’s USB flash drives.

  I’d planned to overnight the drives to a computer security firm in Houston, but when Mia heard me making the arrangements, she told me I could save at least a day by having a friend of hers hack them. I was skeptical at first, but she assured me that this particular tenth-grader was capable of doing the job. Mia’s price for arranging this service? That she be allowed to see what’s on the drives after they’re hacked. Desperate to see the contents as quickly as possible, I agreed. Computer hackers aren’t thick on the ground in Natchez, Mississippi.

  Lucien Morse isn’t short on confidence. When I opened my leather portfolio downstairs and showed him what I had, he rolled his eyes and asked me where the nearest computer was. Now that we’re in the suite, I point to the Dell that one of Quentin’s young lawyers installed here yesterday. Lucien walks to the machine and plugs one of the flash drives into a USB port.

  “The thing about these little wankers,” he says, “is that the security isn’t fundamental. It’s basically obfuscation. I ought to have it open in less than five minutes.”

  “Remember,” I tell him, “the second you break in, you get up from the monitor and walk away. You don’t look at the files. Even if a full-screen picture pops up, you shut your eyes and walk away.”

  “Touchy, touchy.”

  “Your payment is dependent on that condition.”

  “Five hundred dollars?” Lucien says, rapidly tapping at the keyboard. “Right?”

  “Five hundred.”

  “Easy money.”