The Closing: A Whippoorwill Hollow novel (The Whippoorwill Hollow novels) (23 page)

George relaxed. “You’re half correct. Jones told me about Deatherage’s confession and I agreed not to call Claire as a witness, but my reasons were innocent. I didn’t know he stole the scarf. I thought it was legitimate evidence and it made the case airtight. Jones told me Claire was deathly afraid of Deatherage, and I thought she would be an unreliable witness. I didn’t need her testimony in the first trial. Now, with the scarf out of the case, I plan to call her to the stand.”

Nate moved on quickly. “There’s evidence proving you killed Crawford.”

“What sort of evidence?”

“You hauled Crawford’s body and the mattresses to the dump in your pickup truck. A forensics team will find traces of his blood in the truck body, fibers from his clothing, strands of his hair.”

George smoothed down his tie, hooked his hands into his belt, and smirked. “This time of year I spray pesticide on my apple trees. I haul barrels of malathion in my truck from the fruit growers’ co-op to my farm. If I don’t wash out the truck body afterwards, the poison contaminates the feed I haul to my cattle and makes them sick. I scrub down the truck with disinfectant to cleanse it of malathion. I washed out the truck body last week.”

“How convenient.”

“Convenient or not, my truck is clean.”

Nate had only a few cards to play, and all of them were low-numbered. He decided to tell George someone had seen his truck at the warehouse but to withhold Odoms’ name to protect him from George. “There’s a witness who saw your truck at the warehouse the night I was knocked out.”

“You mean Willis Odoms.”

Nate froze.

A wry smile crossed George’s face. “I’m not stupid, Nate. When you told me Odoms saw Crawford walk out of the warehouse right after Darlene Updike’s murder, I had a conversation with him. It occurred to me during that meeting with him that he might have seen my truck at the warehouse close to the time you say Crawford disappeared. After all, Odoms lives next door to the warehouse and he keeps a wary eye on it. So I asked him if he saw my truck.”

“You intimidated him. You threatened him.”

George shook his head. “I did nothing of the sort. All I did was clear up a misunderstanding. Willis is like most colored folk. He means well, but he gets confused. When he talked to you, he made an innocent mistake about the date he saw my truck at the warehouse. My pickup was parked there the night before you arrived in Bloxton. I knew you’d want to take a look at the warehouse, so I walked through it to refresh my memory of the details of the murder. When I told Willis I visited the warehouse the previous night, he agreed he might have seen the truck that night instead of the following night.”

Nate leaned back in his chair. Game over. At least for now. “You’ve covered your tracks well, George.” Every move George had made since Nate appeared in the case had been carefully designed to protect his position. “You know, you caught me off guard when you called the Virginia Supreme Court of Appeals’ clerk and sent the court that amateurish letter trying to concede the appeal in violation of the court’s rules. At the time, I couldn’t understand why you were so willing to give up the appeal, but now I understand. You wanted me to back off before I discovered your role in the corruption, and you got what you wanted. I stopped investigating the case and focused on the appeal. But you know me, George. Now that I know the truth, I won’t give up until I find evidence that proves your guilt.”

“You might consider how well I know you. I know you rigged five criminal prosecutions. I know you suborned perjury in one of those cases. I assume you committed additional felonies to rig the others.” George’s face hardened. “I know Harry Blackwell is an accessory after the fact to your crimes, and Harry must have committed felonies to cover up what you did. If you push me, I’ll expose his felonies along with yours.”

A chill ran through Nate. “You’re good at this,” he said. “When you convinced Judge Blackwell to recommend me for the case, you knew we might come to this point. You counted on my affection for him to keep me in check.” There was a long silence. Nate searched George’s face. “Tell me, George. If Jones had survived, would you have framed me for Crawford’s murder? Would you have asked the court to sentence me to death?”

George was quiet for a while. Then he said, “You and I have been friends for a long time, but we’re different men. You had it easy. Your daddy died when you were a young man, but he left you money to pay for your schooling. You sailed through law school at the top of the class. You became the commonwealth’s attorney of a prosperous county at a young age and your county paid you well. Your cases made you famous. The legal community hoisted you on its shoulders and paraded you around the state.”

George leaned back in his chair. “My daddy was a drunk. He died when I was six. He left my mother and sisters and me with nothing. Nobody helped us. We worked like dogs to get by, scratching in the dust for every penny. Sometimes we’d creep into our neighbors’ houses and steal food so we’d have something to eat. You don’t know what it’s like when your last meal is two days behind you and you don’t know when the next one will come along. You don’t know what it’s like to be dirt poor.”

George’s eyes glistened. His lower lip quivered. He brushed it with his hand and coughed. Nate gave him time to recover. Then he said in a soft voice, “Growing up in hard times doesn’t excuse murder.”

“The term ‘hard times’ doesn’t do justice to what my family went through.” George bit his lip and was quiet for a while. Then he said, “You know, Nate, I always liked you, but I envied you, too. You were the golden boy in law school. You commanded the respect of Judge Blackwell the first time you stepped into his courtroom. Your conviction rate was always higher than mine. I wondered what it was like to have so much handed to you, to have people treat you like an equal without questioning your background, to appear before a judge who seemed to think you were a saint.” George sighed heavily. “Well, the world turns, doesn’t it? You hit bottom there for a while, and I’m on top now. I’ve finally gotten a taste of what you’ve had all your life. I wear the black robe. My word is the law in Buck County. People stand up when I walk into the courtroom. They address me as Your Honor. They do what I order them to do.” George took a deep breath and his expression hardened. “Look, Nate, we both know you have no evidence to prove I committed any crime. Be careful what you say and do when you leave this room. I worked mighty hard to get here, and I won’t give it up without one hell of a fight.”

George’s secretary opened the door. “Parties and counsel in
Clayton v. Hobart
are in the courtroom, Your Honor. The jury’s in the box.”

“Thank you. I’ll be there in a minute.”

The secretary pulled the door closed.

George stood and put on his robe, looking at Nate. “When we first met about the Deatherage case, I advised you not to take aim at the king unless you could kill him, but you’re courageous and you took aim at Eddy Herring and you brought him down. Now I wear the crown. I’m not Eddy. He was soft. I’m not. I came up the hard way, and I’ll do anything required to stay on top. Anything. If you come after me, our friendship won’t be a consideration, and only one of us will be standing at the end of the contest.” George rounded the desk and opened the door. “I’ve said all I have to say, Nate. I apologize for giving you the bum’s rush, but I have to take the bench.”

Nate walked to the door, stopped beside George, and looked him squarely in the eye. He didn’t see his old friend. He saw ice and steel.

George said, “I’m sorry it’s come to this.”

“So am I,” said Nate.

Nate’s prospects of finding more evidence against George were bleak. He could identify no allies in Buck County who would help him. George had assumed control of Judge Herring’s power base and no one in the county was willing to cross him. Nate resolved to bide his time and search for an opening over the coming months, hoping that more evidence or a Buck County counterweight to George’s influence would emerge.

Meanwhile, Nate again immersed himself in his work to find refuge from his misery. The Deatherage case moved forward. The new trial was assigned to Judge Lathrop Wigfield of the Starkey County Circuit Court. Hayesboro was the county seat.

Judge Wigfield scheduled the Deatherage trial for the beginning of November. Daryl Garth was appointed acting Buck County commonwealth’s attorney, pending a special election. He withdrew from the Deatherage case because of the conflict created by his conversations with Nate about the evidence. Judge Wigfield assigned the prosecution of Deatherage to the Starkey County commonwealth’s attorney. Nate met with the prosecutor about the case twice in September. The certainty that Deatherage was guilty weighed on Nate’s conscience. Claire Deatherage’s plea for his help weighed on him, too, and Darlene Updike’s resemblance to Christine wreaked psychological havoc on his motivation to defend Deatherage. During Nate’s third and last meeting with the Starkey County commonwealth’s attorney, Nate succumbed to all these influences and made a decision about Deatherage he knew he had no right to make.

In October, the state moved Deatherage from the state prison to the Starkey County jail in Hayesboro in anticipation of the trial. Nate drove to Hayesboro to meet with Deatherage. The Starkey County jail was a one-story red brick building surrounded by a pine forest on the southern end of town. Nate pulled into the parking lot and parked under a tall white pine. It was a cool fall day. Drizzle misted from a gray sky. Nate got out of the car, walked across the lot, and went inside. The front door opened into a small lobby where a bald, middle-aged deputy sheriff stood behind a counter on the opposite wall. To Nate’s left, another deputy, a young man with greased coal-black hair combed into an Elvis Presley ducktail, sat reading a magazine next to a gun case racked with pump-action shotguns.

Nate approached the counter. “Nate Abbitt here to see Kenneth Deatherage.”

The deputy behind the counter smirked. “You’re the one who brought down the boys in Buck County. Well, you won’t pull any tricks on us. We do things on the up and up.” He pushed a ledger across the counter. “Sign in.”

Nate signed the ledger.

“Elwood, get off your ass and show the man into the cell block.”

Elwood dropped the magazine and heaved himself to a standing position. He dragged his boot heels to the counter, picked up a key ring, unlocked a metal door behind the counter, and held it open for Nate.

Nate was surprised the deputies gave him access to Deatherage without any security precautions. They didn’t ask him for identification, search him, or inspect the contents of his briefcase.

Nate went inside the cell block. There were four small cells, two on each side, with a narrow aisle running between them. Each cell was furnished with a cot and a toilet stool sitting under a barred window. The stench of urine lay heavy in the air. Deatherage was the only prisoner. He was stretched out on a cot in a cell to the right of the door. He looked up at Nate and smiled. “About time you showed up, lawyer.”

Elwood dragged a metal folding chair to a spot outside the bars of Deatherage’s cell and left them alone in the cell block. Nate sat in the chair and handed Deatherage a document and a pen through the bars.

“What’s this?”

“It’s a summary of a plea agreement.”

“What’s it say?”

“The prosecutor will reduce the charges against you to second degree murder. You will plead guilty, and the prosecutor will recommend a sentence of twenty-five years. With good behavior, you’ll be out in fifteen.”

“Is this some kind of joke?”

“You’re facing the death penalty. This is a good agreement for you.”

“I don’t get it. You proved Judge Herring and Jones framed me. You found out Henry Crawford was in the warehouse when the girl was killed. You can tell the jury he might have killed her. He’s dead. He can’t deny it. There’s no way they can convict me. Why in hell would I agree to rot in jail for fifteen years?”

“The forensic evidence points to you alone as the murderer. You had an argument with Updike the night she was killed. You were at the scene of the murder and you fled. There’s a substantial risk you’ll be convicted and sentenced to death if you go to trial on first degree murder. This deal eliminates that risk. Take the deal.”

“But I didn’t kill her.”

“You’re lying.”

“I’m not lyin. I didn’t kill her.”

“I know you killed her.”

Deatherage looked suspicious. “How do you know I killed her?”

“You don’t need to know how I found out, but I know for a fact you killed her.”

Deatherage studied Nate’s face. “You talked to Claire.” Nate waited as Deatherage watched him closely. Nate’s expression betrayed nothing, but Deatherage apparently guessed the truth. He slammed his fist into the cot. “I shoulda wrung her neck when I had the chance. Who else knows what I told Claire?”

“The prosecutor knows.”

“Damn her to hell and back.” Deatherage spewed a string of curses. He rose from the cot, leaned against a wall, crossed his arms over his chest, and stared at the floor. Nate waited. After a while, Deatherage looked at him quizzically. “I thought there was a rule that a wife can’t talk in court against her husband.”

Nate had hoped Deatherage wouldn’t be aware of the spousal privilege, but he had been imprisoned with men who had learned the basic rules of evidence the hard way and they had apparently taught him a few tricks. “There is a privilege,” Nate said, “but it may not apply to your case.”

“Why not?”

“It’s difficult to explain to a non-lawyer.”

“Give it a try. Fifteen years of my life are on the line.”

The truth was the spousal privilege could probably be used to block Claire’s testimony about Deatherage’s confession. The best argument Nate could imagine in favor of admitting the confession was weak, but Nate presented it to Deatherage in its strongest light. “There’s an exception to the privilege in cases involving domestic violence.”

“What’s that got to do with my case? I wasn’t married to the girl.”

“You raped and strangled Claire the night before you killed Updike and you threatened to kill Claire if she told anyone about your confession.”

Deatherage scowled. “What’s that got to do with it? The case ain’t about that. It’s about the girl’s murder.”

“That may not matter. Sympathies don’t run in your favor in this case. The judge may be inclined to rule against you.”

Deatherage looked skeptical. “Sounds like you’re not sure about this.”

“It’s not absolutely clear, but there’s a significant risk the privilege won’t bar Claire’s testimony.”

“Well, I sure as hell won’t agree to do fifteen years over somethin’s not clear. I want you to fight it. Shut Claire down. Don’t let her tell the jury nothin.”

“I can’t fight it.”

“Why not?”

“Because Claire told me about your confession. I know you’re guilty.”

“What the hell’s that got to do with it? You’re not the judge and jury. You’re my lawyer. You’re supposed to do what I tell you, and I say shut Claire up.”

“I can’t do that. I won’t do it.”

“It’s not your decision. I’m the one on trial. I’m the one has to pull the time.”

“I know you killed Updike. I won’t stand by you while you lie to the court. I’m an officer of the court, and I have an ethical duty to be truthful.”

“The court? Who gives a damn about the court? What about me? Don’t your high-and-mighty rules say you have to give me a fair shake? What’s the point of havin a hotshot lawyer if he don’t protect you? You can beat this case and you know it.”

“I won’t discuss this further. You’ll agree to the guilty plea, or I’ll file a motion to withdraw as your counsel on the grounds that you won’t follow my advice.”

“Well, ain’t that noble? I suppose you think you’re too good to defend scum like me. Let’s see, now. You framed a ree-tard, and the boys in state prison claim you and one of your buddies shot Judge Herring and fixed it so you wouldn’t get blamed for it. You killed a judge, but you’re too good to be my lawyer.”

“We’re done here.”

Deatherage grabbed the bars of the cell. “You can’t leave me high and dry. You’re my lawyer. You’re supposed to help me.”

Nate snapped his briefcase shut and stood.

Deatherage’s face was twisted with rage. “Deeks told me about your girlfriend, you know.”

Nate stared at Deatherage.

“That’s right, lawyer. Even the jailbirds know you cheated on your wife. Deeks told me about your pretty little secretary, how you screwed her in your office right under your wife’s nose.”

“You and Deeks deserve each other. You both belong in hell.” Nate rapped on the cell block door.

“Go ahead and walk out on me. I’m sick and tired of your high falutin talk about the truth. You want to know the truth, lawyer? The truth is you belong in here with me. The only difference between you and me is you won’t tell the truth about yourself. You break the laws when it suits you and you tell yourself you’re not a crook because you think you know better than the law what’s right and wrong.”

Nate looked at Deatherage.

Deatherage said, “Don’t think I’m so stupid I don’t know what you’re pullin on me. All your fancy talk about your standards and rules is a pack of lies. You could get me off if you wanted to, and that’s what your fancy lawyer rules say you’re supposed to do. You’re breakin the rules by walkin out on me, and you’re doin it because you think you know what’s right. You’re just like the crooks in Buck County you brought down. You’re part of it, part of the rotten system, just like them. You’re no better than Judge Herring and Swiller and Jones. You’re just another crooked lawyer who thinks you have the right to decide who goes free and who goes to jail. Well, I won’t let you put me back in state prison. I won’t go back there, and I’ll find a way to pay you back for walkin out on me, by damn. Mark my words. I’ll find a way.”

Elwood opened the door. Nate walked through it while Deatherage shouted curses at his back.