Music of Ghosts (15 page)

Twenty-One

The insistent ring of
a telephone split the gauzy silence of the bedroom. Mary burrowed deeper under the covers, instinctively waiting for Jonathan to answer it—early callers were usually hunters or fishermen wanting to hire him as a day guide. But then she remembered that Jonathan was en route to Oklahoma; answering early calls was now her responsibility. Yawning, she sat up and stretched across the bed, reaching for the phone. A crisp British voice came over the line.

“Ms. Crow? Annette Henry here, from the criminal court clerk's office.”

“Yes?” Mary croaked. Annette Henry usually called her at work, left messages on her answering machine. Mary felt like her accent always added a patina of respectability to her legal pleadings, as if Annette were summoning her to the Old Bailey instead of the Pisgah County Courthouse.

“Sorry to call so early, but I need to inform you that your client Nicholas Stratton is scheduled to be arraigned in Judge Barbee's court, at three this afternoon.”

“Tur
pin's indicting?” Mary wondered if she was dreaming. “Are you sure? Yesterday the police were just holding him for questioning.”

“I just received the papers.” Annette rattled some pages. “Mr. Stratton is being charged with capital murder, in the death of Lisa Carlisle Wilson.”

“When did you say? Whose court?” Mary fumbled for a pen on the bedside table. Annette's English precision always made her feel slightly disorganized.

“Judge Barbee's court, at three this afternoon.”

“Okay.” Mary scribbled the information on the back of one of Jonathan's crossword puzzle books. “Thanks, Annette.”

She hung up the phone, blinking in disbelief. Though Pisgah County did not have the legal backlogs of larger jurisdictions, the wheels of justice rarely turned this swiftly. Had Cochran found some smoking gun of evidence? Had Stratton signed a confession? She doubted that—he was too smart and she'd warned him not to say or do anything without her. She stared at the phone a moment, then she realized—this was theatre. With Carlisle Wilson offering a million-dollar reward and that grotesque photo in the
Snitch
upping the ante, Turpin had to do something. Indicting Stratton would get the governor off his back plus it was good political strategy. And Turpin was up for re-election this November.

“He'll indict now, ask for remand, then go to trial after election day,” she said aloud. “If he wins, great. If he loses, he'll blame it on sloppy police work. Either way he stays in office another four years.” It was self-serving and unfair, but Turpin was a politician. She'd disliked him since the day they met and nothing had warmed her feelings toward him since.

Still, even if the evidence was circumstantial, they must have found something.
Better hurry downtown
, Mary thought as she threw off her covers,
and find out what's going on
.

An hour later, she pulled up in the Justice Center parking lot. A deputy escorted her to the same interview room they'd used yesterday. She was opening her briefcase when they brought Stratton in. He looked tired and grizzly-cheeked, a surfer far from the sea.

“So what happened after I left yesterday?” Mary skipped the pleasantries of good morning and how are you feeling today.

“Nothing,” said Stratton. “I walked five thousand laps around my cell. A lady named Charlotte brought me a hamburger for supper, and a drunk named Arliss sang Johnny Cash tunes all night.”

“They didn't question you anymore?”

“No.”

“You didn't sign anything, did you?”

“Of course not.” He paced in front of the table, his steps quick, his shoulders hunched forward.

“Well, I hate to tell you, but the DA's going to arraign you this afternoon. They're charging you with Lisa Wilson's murder.”

“What?” His eyes blazed with gray fire. “But that can't happen! I didn't kill that damn girl!”

“I know,” said Mary. “But it looks like we may have to prove that in court. This is just the first step.”

“To what?” Stratton looked wildly around the room. “A lethal injection?”

“No—this is just the first step in due process. We'll go over to the courthouse at three, the DA will charge you, and the judge will ask how you plead. I will say not guilty. Then the judge will set a date for a preliminary hearing. The DA will probably ask that you be remanded to custody.”

“You mean stay in jail?”

She nodded. “But I'll argue for bail. I'll show what an upstanding citizen you are and how undeserving of incarceration.” She uncapped a fountain pen. “But first, I need some more information—the court will want to know about your ties to the area.”

He gave a great sigh—then started recounting his life. “I'm from Seattle. I've lived in North Carolina twenty years. Did my undergraduate work at Stanford, got my doctorate at Washington. I've run the raptor center since 1999. Never been arrested, never been in jail. Got a speeding ticket back in '97, in Idaho. My parents are dead. I have an ex-wife who lives in Portland, Oregon.”

“Any children?” asked Mary, thinking of Jonathan and Lily.

“No.”

“If there's anything I need to know, tell me now. Attorneys hate surprises.”

“Anything like what?”

“Anything like charges that have been dismissed, drug busts you copped a plea to. Anything less than upstanding.”

He thought a moment, then said, “I was stopped once for collecting road kill, in Tennessee.”

Mary blinked. “Road kill?”

“For the birds,” he explained. “Squirrels and opossums, mostly. Raptors love fresh meat.”

“Okay,” she said, making a note. “I don't think that will make you a flight risk. I'll be honest with you—yesterday a tabloid came out with a picture of Lisa Wilson's body. It's got everybody pretty riled up. I think that's why Turpin's moving so fast on this.”

He frowned. “I'm not sure what you mean.”

“It's an election year. George Turpin would much rather run as the man who put Lisa Wilson's killer behind bars than the man who let a homicidal maniac go free.”

Stratton leaned forward. “Look,” he said, his tone urgent. “I'm not a homicidal maniac. I can't stay in jail. I have work to do. Birds to take care of.”

She'd heard this desperation before, in other clients. “I'll do the best I can for you. First, though, we need to get you cleaned up. Do you have a suit? A coat and tie?”

He nodded. “At home.”

“Could somebody bring it down here?”

“One of my interns could.”

She shook her head. “All your interns have gone home.”

He flinched, as if someone had hit him. “Are Artie and Jenkins still there?”

“Who?”

“My two handymen. Call the Dr. Lovebird number. One of them should answer.”

“And if they don't?”

He reached for Mary's pen and legal pad. “If they don't, forget about my suit and call this number.”

“Who is that?” asked Mary, watching as Stratton scrawled an out-of-state area code.

“Doris Mager. The best raptor woman in the country. If you can't get me out of here, she'll have to come and get my birds.”

Five hours later they pulled up in a police car at the back entrance of the courthouse. Much to Mary's relief, a funny little man named Artie Slade had answered the raptor center phone and agreed to bring Stratton his clothes. Now Stratton sat beside her freshly washed and shaven, looking elegant in a dark blue suit and gold tie. Mary smiled, knowing that Lady Justice was theoretically blind, but she still liked good-looking defendants.

“You want us to spread these photographers out a little, Ms. Crow?” asked Buddy Pease, an old cop for whom she'd just written a will.

“If you could, Buddy,” she replied. She'd hoped to avoid the press, but reporters and photographers clustered thick around the door. Coupled with the throng of outraged citizens who stood in front of the building, the scene gave Mary an ominous feeling—all of Hartsville seemed bent on providing Carlisle Wilson with a suspect in his daughter's murder, purely as a matter of civic pride. “I'd like to get into the building with as little drama as possible.”

“Why are all these people here?” Stratton peered out the window as cameras started flashing.

Mary said, “You're big news.”

“I'm not walking in there hiding my face like some criminal,” he warned.

“I don't want you to,” said Mary. “You walk in there with shoulders square, head high. Remember, you're an innocent man.”

Buddy Pease got out of the cruiser and starting pushing the press back, clearing a path for them. Mary got out next, then Stratton. As the photographers began jostling each other for the best shots, Stratton adjusted his tie and walked beside her, unflinching through all the commotion. They entered the building through the back door, then rode up to the sixth floor on a service elevator.

“Is it always like this?” Stratton asked.

“The process is always the same,” said Mary. “There's seldom this much hoopla.”

Finally, they reached the waiting room for Barbee's court. For a few moments they stood there, awkward, like two actors awaiting their cue. Then Virgil Starnes, the bailiff, cracked opened the courtroom door.

“You're up, Ms. Crow.”

“Thanks, Virgil.” Smiling as the older man held the door, she whispered to Nick. “Okay—I know you're mad as hell, but you can't show it. Just stand up and answer whatever question the judge might ask. Say ‘Yes Sir' and ‘Your Honor.' Barbee's an ex-Marine who likes his law and his whiskey straight and without embellishments.”

They entered the courtroom from a side door. Spectators filled the gallery, greeting them with a rumble of whispered comments as they entered.
Damn
, Mary thought,
everybody in the county must be here.
She strode over and took her place at the defense table, Stratton following.
Thank God he presents himself like an innocent man
, she thought as she laid her briefcase down on the table. She hated clients who skulked in like mangy dogs, guilt crawling over them like fleas.

She knew Judge Barbee appreciated crisp procedure, so she stepped up to the podium. Across the aisle, George Turpin gave her a brief nod as he took his corresponding place as prosecutor. She could tell he was enjoying this. Hell, it was a shitload of free publicity—what politician wouldn't love that?

Everyone rose as Barbee emerged from chambers, his trademark red tie bright against his black robe. “Well, Mr. Turpin?” he said as he sat down and looked at his docket. “It's your party. Let's get it rolling.”

Turpin began to read a long indictment, charging Nicholas Macalester Stratton with the heinous murder of Lisa Carlisle Wilson. Chapter and verse he elaborated, stating time of death, place of death, and claiming, with righteous indignation, that Nicholas Stratton had flouted the laws of all decency when he lured and most viciously strangled and mutilated this young girl to death. As the spectators gasped, he thundered like a preacher on fire with Sunday morning conviction; when he finished he looked at Mary with scorn, as if she were a worm for even thinking of defending such a piece of scum.

“Thank you, Mr. Turpin,” Judge Barbee said calmly, unimpressed by the DA's hyperbolic oratory. He turned to the defense table, looked over his glasses at Stratton.

“Are you Nicholas Macalester Stratton?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What say you to these charges?”

Mary took over. “Not guilty, Your Honor. Mr. Stratton completely and categorically denies all charges.” She spoke strongly, telegraphing to Turpin that he was in for a fight.

Barbee marked something down on a piece of paper. “Alright, since the accused has counsel, I'll set the preliminary hearing for Monday, September seventeenth.” He looked up. “Mr. Turpin, I'm assuming you want to remand?”

“I certainly do. The best way to keep the people of Pisgah County safe is to keep this man behind bars.”

Mary started speaking almost before Turpin had finished. “We
respectfully ask the court to review Mr. Stratton's past record, Your Honor. He is a doctor of avian biology, he's run the Pisgah County Raptor Rescue Center since 1999, his only prior offense was a traffic violation issued in 1997, by the state of Idaho.”

Turpin pressed his case. “Your Honor, this crime is horrific. The daughter of a beloved governor has been, in our county, murdered without cause. May I also bring to the court's attention that Mr. Stratton is not a native Carolinian, with no long-term ties to the community.”

“Your Honor, Mr. Stratton has lived in North Carolina for the past twenty years. He's an adjunct professor at Duke University, plus his commitment to the wildlife and ecology of these mountains is deep and long-standing.”

“Okay, counselors, I get the picture.” Judge Barbee shook his head. “Ms. Crow, your argument is persuasive, but I'm going to have to deny it. Your client's residence is too remote, and the mountains present a very easy escape route for someone so inclined. The accused is ordered remanded to custody.”

Mary played her last card. “Without bail, Your Honor? My client has no criminal record, plus he has ongoing federal responsibilities to the endangered wildlife at his center.”

“I'm sorry, Ms. Crow. This time the community trumps endangered wildlife.”

Barbee tapped his gavel as a wave of noise enveloped the courtroom. Two officers appeared to take Stratton back to jail. Shrugging away from their grasp, he leaned toward Mary.