by Diane Moody
Sterling’s smile appeared genuine. “Sadly, no. Since you were married in Vegas, you’ll need to find an attorney there to help you.”
“Certainly,” she said, her plastered smile back in place. As she headed toward the open door, a cab slowed to a stop in the circular driveway. “Well, gentlemen, I thank you for your assistance. Do give Kathleen my apologies for not saying goodbye.”
Peyton opened the back door of the cab for her.
“And if you’re ever in Vegas, look me up, all right? I’d love to show you my town.”
“Will do,” Sterling said.
As the taxi pulled away, Peyton gave Sterling a pat on the shoulder. “What a day. I can add this to my list of life experiences. I met a real, live gold digger.”
“Can you believe that woman?” Kathleen said, joining them as they watched the cab drive away. “You know, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if that little tramp was the one who killed my brother,” she quipped, half-jokingly.
After an awkward pause between them, Sterling broke the silence. “Well, wouldn’t that be something?”
“I’m really sorry, Aubrey,” Peyton said, lowering his voice when he finally caught up with her as the reception wound down. “If you had told me that I’d be placing a Vegas showgirl in a taxi for the airport today, I would’ve suspected you of sneaking into Kathleen’s liquor cabinet.”
Aubrey shushed him then laughed. “I doubt there’s much left,” she said, nodding toward the corner where Kathleen and Mr. Phelps conversed.
“Doesn’t surprise me.”
“So, Harley was married to a Vegas showgirl? Never saw that one coming.”
“She was his fourth wife, I’m told, though we assumed he’d divorced her soon after they married. Apparently, Harley had an extremely lucrative run at the casino tables that week and decided it was time for a new Mrs. Creech. But when he brought her here to Braxton and she realized he wasn’t quite the millionaire she thought he was, she boarded the next plane back to Vegas. Though I have to say, I’m surprised she was still under the illusion that he’s got millions stashed somewhere.”
“Such a sad story.”
“Well, yes and no. I think it was over before it began. But enough about all that. How are you? Have you and Faye had a nice time?”
“I’m not sure I’ve ever been asked that question following a funeral.”
“Ah, but this was no ordinary funeral, was it?”
“You have a point.”
He took her hand in his. “I’m sorry I’ve been so busy these past couple of days. It’s not usually like this. For such a sleepy little town, we’ve sure had our share lately.”
“That’s all right. But I admit I’ve missed you. Which kind of surprises me, if I’m honest.”
He squeezed her hand. “And why is that?”
She lifted a shoulder then glanced away, a shy smile on her lips. “Let’s just say it’s been a really long time since I wanted to be with someone as much as I want to be with you.”
When her eyes landed back on his, he was tempted to kiss her right there on the spot, but refrained. “I’m glad to hear that.”
“You are?”
“Yes,” he began, leaning close and lowering his voice, “Because in my case, I’ve never wanted to be with someone as much as I want to be with you.” And without a moment’s hesitation, he kissed her cheek. “Would you like to—”
“Peyton! There you are,” Sterling said, grasping him on the shoulder. “I’m terribly sorry to interrupt, but we need to talk. Hello again Miss Evans.”
“Hello Mr. LaFayette.”
“Please, just call me Sterling.”
Peyton looked back and forth between them. “The two of you have met?”
“Yes, I had a nice chat with Faye and her lovely daughter here while you were attending to Kathleen earlier.”
“You said we need to talk?” Peyton asked.
Sterling looked at Aubrey then back to Peyton. “I’m assuming Miss Evans knows about your situation?”
“You mean Tristan? Yes, she knows.”
“Ah. Good. Then I can talk freely.” He smiled and leaned closer to them, lowering his voice. “I had a call a few moments ago that Tristan is to be arraigned tomorrow morning in Ashland City. Which means you and I need to hop on over to the jail and have a chat with your brother before that happens.”
“You mean now?”
“Yes, I’m afraid so. Jeff has agreed to meet us there in fifteen minutes.”
Peyton looked at Aubrey, disappointed that his evening was taking a detour.
“You go,” she said. “I need to find Mother and head home.”
He told Sterling he would meet him at the sheriff’s office in a few minutes. Then, taking her hand, he led her out of the tent and back toward the courtyard.
“I thought you needed to leave,” she said, following him around a corner and out of view.
“I do. But not before I give you a proper kiss goodnight.”
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” she teased, “with all these parishioners milling around?”
“Kissing you is always a good idea.”
So he did.
Chapter 26
Five days later on Friday morning, Peyton climbed into the front passenger seat of Sterling’s BMW for the half-hour drive up to the county seat in Ashland City.
“I’m really sorry Tristan’s arraignment got delayed,” Sterling said. “Should’ve happened Monday morning, and here it is already Friday. But that’s just the nature of these things.”
“It’s okay. I understand.”
“Have you been up to see Tristan this week?”
“No, with everything else going on, I’ve been trying to play catch up at the church.”
“So how are you this morning? Holding up all right?”
“Actually, I’m exhausted. The past couple of weeks are starting to wear on me.”
“I would imagine so. Oh, and by the way, sorry I didn’t make it to church last Sunday.”
“You don’t have to apologize, Sterling. To be honest, you didn’t miss much.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Remember, that was the day of Harley’s funeral and pretty much the only topic of conversation before, during, and after the church service.”
“Well, I suppose that’s no surprise.”
“Maybe not. I guess I was disappointed more than anything. I had hoped my message would remind everyone of their own personal responsibility to stay grounded in their faith and to search their hearts for what God can teach them through this whole thing. But truth be told, it fell on deaf ears. They probably didn’t hear a word I said.”
“I’m sure it’ll blow over.”
“I sure hope so. I must’ve fielded a hundred questions about Tristan.
“Well, there again, that’s not much of a surprise either. I mean, look at it from their point of view. Until Tristan was found, you were named a person of interest in Harley’s murder. Then suddenly, your identical twin—who, for the record, most of your congregation didn’t know about—shows up in Braxton doing the perp walk with half the town watching. Makes sense folks would wonder what was going on.”
“I guess.” Peyton yawned as he ran his fingers through his hair. “Don’t mind me. I’m just tired and grumpy this morning.”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself, Peyton. You’ll get through this. You’ll see.”
They drove in silence for a few minutes before Peyton spoke again.
“I meant to thank you for putting up with my brother the other night. I’m sorry he wasn’t more help.”
“No need to apologize. I’ve represented plenty of ‘Tristans’ in my time. They’re ticked off because they’re always the go-to suspects when a crime is committed. Especially if they had nothing to do with it. And for the record, I believe Tristan is innocent. Plenty of other ways he could get even with you, if that was his intent.”
“I know.”
“And let�
�s remember, Harley hasn’t been seen in Braxton for months. The odds of him sneaking back in town and going to the church, of all places, are slim to none, let alone at the same exact time Tristan went there looking for you.”
“I know,” Peyton said, stretching his back. “But at the same time, I keep reminding myself this is Tristan. In the back of my mind, I’ve even wondered if somehow the two of them were tied together. Like they had some connection and planned to meet at the church for some kind of clandestine exchange or … I don’t know.”
“How would that even happen?”
“I have no idea. This is just my random mind searching for answers based on my brother’s long history of deceit and manipulation. Add to that a few years in prison where God only knows what kind of criminal minds impacted his thought processes.”
“But remember, Peyton, the law says a person is innocent until proven guilty.”
“I know, I know.”
“Doesn’t the Bible say something along those same lines?”
“Funny you mention that. The other night I couldn’t sleep because I was wrestling with all this and wondered if there was a Biblical basis for someone claiming to be innocent until proven guilty. So I dug around in my Bible and found something similar. The words aren’t identical, of course, but the implication is there. Let me look it up,” he said, pulling out his cell phone to check the Bible app.
“It’s a passage in chapter thirty-five of the Old Testament book of Numbers. Here it is. Verse thirty. ‘Anyone who kills a person is to be put to death as a murderer only on the testimony of witnesses. But no one is to be put to death on the testimony of only one witness.’”
“Yes, but the law states emphatically that the burden of proof is on the accuser,” Sterling countered. “The prosecution, therefore, is accusing Tristan based on circumstantial evidence—he admitted to being there at the church that night. And from the prosecution’s perspective, there’s a possible motive based on Tristan’s history—wanting to get even with you for putting him in prison. In their eyes, the church is your workplace, thus putting Tristan smack-dab in the middle of a possible motive against you.
“But in the end,” Sterling continued, “and as I told Tristan when I called him yesterday, the grand jury will decide this morning whether or not there’s enough evidence to take his case to trial, or to let him go based on lack of evidence.”
“I still don’t understand why you, as his attorney, can’t attend the hearing before the grand jury. How is that fair?”
“It’s just standard protocol. All the grand jury rules are predicated upon the venerated concept known as the presumption of innocence. My presence is not necessary. Those twelve jurors are simply there to determine if there’s sufficient evidence to bring charges against your brother. I’m guessing there is.”
“So, how does this play out?”
“We’ll cool our heels while we wait for their report. If Tristan is charged, there will be an arraignment this afternoon to take his plea, set bail, select a venue and perhaps a judge, and schedule a date for the actual trial. Then the next step will be jury selection.”
“It all happens that fast?”
Sterling chuckled. “No, I imagine the jury selection process won’t even begin for three months. Maybe longer. Gird your loins, my friend. The wheels of justice grind at a snail’s pace. Especially in rural Tennessee.”
“You mentioned bail. Will Tristan be able to post bond and get out of jail while waiting for the trial?”
“Don’t count on it. I predict there will be no bail offered. But if there is, it’ll be set astronomically high because this is a murder case.”
“Yeah, I have to keep reminding myself of that fact. Will you speak with Tristan before his arraignment?”
“Yes, I’ll have the list of indictments. I’ll counsel him to plead not guilty to all charges. That simply allows the trial to go forward.”
Sterling pulled into the crowded courthouse parking lot. Minutes later, they signed in, worked their way through the line for the metal detector, then sat down on one of the wooden benches in the ornate lobby.
“Now what?”
“We wait. Could be twenty minutes, could be two hours.”
An hour and thirty-five minutes later, the door from the courtroom burst open and a stodgy middle-aged woman waddled across the lobby to a clerk sitting at a desk and handed him four or five legal envelopes.
“That’s our cue.”
Peyton watched as Sterling strode over to the desk, and after exchanging pleasantries with the clerk, was handed one of the legal envelopes. He then motioned for Peyton to join him as he headed back out to the parking lot.
“Well?”
“For the sake of privacy let’s open this in my car. I noticed several of Tom Compton’s boys lurking around the lobby.”
“Tom Compton?”
“He’s the county prosecutor. He’s the one who’ll be trying to put Tristan away for good.”
Once back in the car, Sterling opened the envelope. “Just as I expected, five felony counts.”
“Why five?
“Grand juries take a shotgun approach to indictments. They know before it’s over that the judge will likely toss several of these out. The good news here is that they’ve gone for murder two. This means they feel the evidence is not compelling enough to warrant a murder one charge. This also means Tristan’s sentence will be shorter if he’s convicted. Looks like we caught an early break.”
“Well, that’s some good news, I guess.”
“Yes, it is. Let’s go grab an early lunch, then swing by the county jail. That way I can spend a few minutes with Tristan before the arraignment at two this afternoon.”
Peyton glanced around the small auxiliary courtroom. It reminded him of the time he had to go to traffic court for coasting through a stop sign one night while he was visiting a family in Nashville. These courtrooms all looked the same. Low, acoustic-tiled ceilings. Lousy fluorescent light fixtures which gave the room a dim green aura. Six rows of cheap banquet-style chairs with a center aisle. A podium with a microphone stood at the front of the aisle, and a couple of nondescript tables up front banked the elevated mahogany judge’s desk which dominated the narrow room.
While Peyton waited in the gallery, Sterling took a seat at the table on the left, across the aisle from the infamous Tom Compton, seated at the table on the right. They didn’t speak. A few minutes later, the bailiff walked in with Tristan who was decked out in a tangerine county jumpsuit with complementary leg irons. He stood behind a small railing off to one side with the bailiff close by.
Suddenly, a door behind the judge’s desk slowly opened, and with a booming voice, the bailiff announced, “All rise for the Honorable Judge Whitaker T. Dunbar.”
A short and rotund elderly gentleman dressed in a black robe shuffled through the door and eased himself into the judge’s chair. He motioned for everyone to take a seat. After placing his readers on his nose, he opened a file folder and began to peruse its contents. Peyton noticed the judge twisting his thick, bushy white eyebrows with one hand as he read the grand jury report. After several long minutes, he laid down the file folder and surveyed the small courtroom.
“It appears we have the necessary players in place to complete our assigned task.” He glanced down at the court reporter. “Ms. Jespers, are we good to go?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
Looking back out at those before him, he smiled. “Sterling, it’s been a while. Good to see you. How is life treating you these days?”
“Just fine, Your Honor. And you?”
“Can’t complain.” Picking up the file folder again, he turned to Tristan. “And this is Mr. Gellar, I assume?”
“Yes, Your Honor,” the bailiff responded.
“Mr. Gellar, the grand jury has levied five felony indictments against you, and at this time, we need to ask how you intend to plead to each of these charges. So I shall read them one at a time, after which you respond w
ith your plea. Do you understand?”
Tristan looked at Sterling who nodded. Turning back toward the judge, he answered, “Yes, Your Honor.”
“All right then. Mr. Gellar, you have been charged by the state of Tennessee with violating your parole. How do you plead?”
“Not guilty, Your Honor.”
“You have been charged by the state of Tennessee with leaving the scene of a crime. How do you plead?”
“Not guilty, Your Honor.”
“You have been charged by the state of Tennessee with the murder of one Harley Creech. How do you plead?”
“Not guilty, Your Honor.”
“You have been charged by the state of Tennessee with two counts of resisting arrest. How do you plead?”
“Not guilty, Your Honor.”
“All right, then. Ms. Jespers, did you record the defendant’s pleas as not guilty to all five charges?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
The judge checked his calendar, then turned to the attorneys. “Mr. Compton, Mr. LaFayette, how does three months from tomorrow sound? That puts us at the twenty-second of January.”
“That works for me, Your Honor,” Mr. Compton answered.
“For me, as well,” Sterling added.
“Okay, then. Jury selection will begin in the main courtroom at nine o’clock sharp on the morning of the twenty-second of January in the new year. Did you get that, Ms. Jespers?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
The judge looked up. “Anything else?”
Sterling sprung to his feet. “Concerning bail, Your Honor?”
The judge grimaced and grunted. “There will be no bail set as this is a murder trial. We’ll see you gentlemen in three months.” He stood and shuffled back out the door as the bailiff led Tristan away.
Chapter 27
On Saturday, after making several hospital visits in Nashville, Peyton made his way back home to Braxton for a late lunch. He glanced at his cell phone as he climbed the steps to his front porch and noticed a missed call from Audrey. It was a bad habit, forgetting to turn his cell’s ringer back on after making home or hospital visits. He listened to her voice mail, instantly alarmed by the tone of her voice.
