A Crime of Passion Read online

  Based on my experience with high-profile cases, I knew Paul Milius’s arraignment would most likely be a circus, but I was unprepared for the scope of the idiocy on display outside and inside the criminal court building in downtown Nashville. David, Paul Milius’s driver, had driven me to the jail and was now driving me to the courthouse for the arraignment. I had refused to ride in the backseat and was sitting next to him in the front.

  “There’s something I need to tell you,” David said.

  “Yeah? What’s that?”

  “It’s about Mr. Milius. The police have already talked to me, and I had to tell them the truth.”

  “Okay. Let’s hear it.”

  “Th at night, the night this happened, was the same night as the Country Music Television Artists of the Year show at the City Center. I drove Mr. Milius to the show, and then I drove him to the after-party at a restaurant downtown. He came out of the restaurant around two in the morning and asked me to drive him to the Plaza Hotel, which is where they found Kasey Cartwright’s body the next morning. I dropped him off in front of the hotel, and he told me to go on home, that he’d see me the next morning.”

  “And?”

  “That’s it. I dropped him off and went home. The next morning, he walked out the back door at six-thirty sharp, just like he does every Monday through Saturday. I took him to the office. The night before wasn’t even mentioned. I just thought you should know. It might be a problem.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  I let out a soft whistle as we approached the six-story A.A. Birch Building on Second Avenue near the Cumberland River. There were news vans and trucks everywhere. We turned onto James Robertson Parkway, and David pulled over in front of the huge courthouse.

  “You probably should ask somebody about a back way or a side way out when you’re finished,” he said. “You have my cell number. Just call and I’ll pick you up.”

  I got out of the Mercedes and followed the crowd into the building, glad to be anonymous, at least for a little while longer. I went through security and made my way up to the sixth floor to Courtroom 6B. When I opened the door, I saw the room was packed with reporters and cameras. Court wasn’t due to start for another twenty minutes, and there were no lawyers standing or sitting beyond the bar, so I closed the door and walked to the other end of the hall. I leaned against the wall and watched from a distance for the next fifteen minutes while people went in and out of the courtroom door and milled around in the hallway. Five minutes before Paul Milius’s arraignment was scheduled to begin, I walked into the courtroom and strode straight to the front. A lanky, early-forties man in a dark suit and a young woman were sitting at the table to my right, near the jury box. I set my briefcase down on the table to my left and listened to the raised whispers and low murmurs behind me.

  “That’s him. That’s Dillard. I heard Milius hired Joe Dillard, didn’t believe it. No, no, he’s from northeast of Knoxville. The mountains, yeah, Johnson City, Bristol, Kingsport, Jonesborough, all those little towns. Used to be a prosecutor. Yeah, a real brawler from what they say. Quite a reputation.”

  I felt someone looming to my right and turned.

  “Pennington Frye,” the man said, holding out his hand, which I took. He was the same man who had been sitting at the prosecutor’s table a moment before. He looked like images I’d seen of Ichabod Crane, all lanky and gangly with a sharp widow’s peak.

  “Joe Dillard.”

  “Would you describe yourself as famous or infamous?”

  “I’d describe myself as a lawyer doing a job. Would you describe yourself as Ronnie Johnson’s top gun?” Ronnie Johnson was the district attorney general of Davidson County, which comprised the Twentieth Judicial District in Tennessee. I’d never met Johnson or Frye, although I’d heard Johnson speak at a district attorney general’s convention back when I was the DA of the First Judicial District and had been impressed.

  “You might say that,” Frye said. “I handle the violent felonies and the high-profile cases.”

  “You must be a pretty good trial lawyer then.”

  “I like to think so.”

  “How’s the judge?”

  “Judge Graves? I suppose he’s fine. I haven’t heard anything to the contrary.”

  “I mean how is it working with him? I assume you’ve tried cases in front of him.”

  “He’s an arrogant, pompous tyrant. Aren’t they all?”

  I smiled and nodded. No matter how things went from there, at least Frye and I shared a low opinion of judges. I looked over at the table to my right. The young woman sitting there was scowling at me.

  “Who’s your friend?” I said to Frye.

  “Dee Dee Black. Victim-witness coordinator. She doesn’t like defense lawyers.”

  “It’s a big club.”

  Just then a door opened to the right of the judge’s bench, and a uniformed bailiff called court to order. Judge Ian Graves, mid-fifties and looking squat and Irish and irritable, walked in, black robe flowing.

  “State versus Paul Milius, case number three-seven-six-five-five-four for arraignment,” the judge said. “The State of Tennessee is represented by Mister Pennington Frye, and the defendant is represented by…who?”

  “Joe Dillard, Judge,” I said. “I’m from Washington County, usually practice in the First Judicial District.”

  “Ah, then you knew my friend Len Green,” he said. Judge Leonard Green had been perhaps the most perfect example of a son of a bitch I’d ever known before he was murdered several years back.

  “I did. I tried many cases in front of him.”

  “He was a good man,” Judge Graves said. “I miss him.”

  “You’re the only person on the planet who misses him,” I wanted to say. Instead, I said, “Yes, sir.”

  “Bring in the defendant,” the judge said, and less than ten seconds later Paul Milius, handcuff ed, waist-chained, shackled, wearing striped coveralls and flanked by two sheriff’s deputies, walked in.

  “Excuse me, Judge,” I said, “but isn’t this overkill? Shackles and a waist chain? Do you typically allow defendants to be treated this way in your courtroom?”

  Graves glared at me over his reading glasses.

  “Defendants accused of murdering children get special treatment,” he said.

  “So the presumption of innocence is just…what? A meaningless phrase? This is a prominent businessman in the community—the nation, for that matter. He’s a philanthropist who has donated millions to charities. He’s never been arrested, never even had a traffic ticket from what I’ve been able to gather. And as far as I know, he hasn’t yet been convicted in this case.”

  “Security at the courthouse is handled by the Davidson County Sheriff’s Department, Mr. Dillard,” the judge said as Milius stepped up beside me at the defense table. “I don’t interfere with how he conducts his business, and he doesn’t interfere with how I conduct mine. If you don’t like it, take it up with Sheriff Hightower. And I’d advise you to watch your tone when you’re addressing this court.”

  My “tone” in addressing the court, in fact my entire little speech, was designed with a purpose in mind: to let the court know that I wasn’t a pushover, wasn’t a brown-noser, and would vigorously and zealously represent Paul Milius. There is a fine line between zealous representation and obnoxious representation, however, and lawyers who don’t recognize the line and who cross it are, for the most part, ineffective. But I’ve always felt it important to establish my identity early on in a case, whether it be in front of a judge or an opposing lawyer or a witness or a jury, and I’ve always felt my identity needed to be one of strength and competence, even if I was scared out of my wits and completely unsure of what I was doing.

  “I meant no disrespect to the court,” I said, at least somewhat sincerely.

  Judge Graves looked at his clerk and said, “Pass me the file, please.” He opened it, took out a copy of the indictment, and handed it to a bailiff, who walked it over to me. “Mr.
Milius,” the judge said, “you’ve been indicted by the Davidson County grand jury on one count of second-degree murder. Have you had a chance to speak with Mr. Dillard prior to this hearing?”

  “Yes,” Milius said.

  “Did Mr. Dillard explain the charge to you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you understand the charge against you?”

  “I do.”

  “How does your client plead, Mr. Dillard?”

  “Not guilty.”

  “Do you wish to have the indictment read into the record?”

  “We waive the formal reading.”

  “I suppose you want to talk about bail,” the judge said.

  “We ask for half a million, and we can post cash,” I said. “Mr. Milius has lived and worked in this area for most of his life and has strong ties here. His wife and mother are here. His business is headquartered here. Up until this charge, he had an impeccable reputation, and, as I said earlier, he has absolutely no criminal record. I haven’t seen all the state’s evidence, but I understand the case is largely circumstantial. I could bring any number of witnesses to court, including state legislators, to testify as to his character and reputation. Mr. Milius is willing to surrender his passport and will not leave the area until the case is resolved.”

  “Mr. Frye?” the judge said.

  “The state asks that he remain in custody,” Frye said. “Mr. Milius is a wealthy man, which means he’s a flight risk. He’s facing a long sentence after he’s convicted of this heinous murder of an innocent, young girl, and we believe he’s likely to flee.”

  “Bail is set in the amount of $1 million, cash,” Judge Graves said. “I want him to surrender his passport. What about a trial date? Mr. Dillard?”

  “As quickly as possible, Judge. I’d like it on the record that we’re asserting our right to a speedy trial.”

  “So noted.”

  Graves turned and huddled with his clerk for a couple minutes and then turned back to us.

  “April twenty-fifth,” he said. “Which means you better get your experts lined up in a hurry and get all your information exchanged without having to come in here and argue in front of me. Any objections from anyone?”

  The question was met with silence.

  “Good. So unless something comes up in the meantime, I’ll see you folks in just short of four months, and we’ll have ourselves a trial. I’m sure it’ll be loads of fun.”

  I stood along with everyone else while the judge strutted out of the room. The deputies led Milius out. He would be taken back to the jail and released in a few hours, after his bond was posted and the paperwork completed. When the door closed behind Milius, I turned to look at the pack of jackals that called themselves reporters, and then turned to Pennington Frye.

  “Is there a way out of here without having to deal with the press?” I asked.

  He looked at the crowded courtroom and then back at me.

  “Sure,” he said. “Follow me.”

  PART II

  CHAPTER 8

  Charlie Story, a beautiful young lady whose hair was the same color as my wife’s, sat looking across her desk at me. My son, Jack, dark-haired like me but brown-eyed like his mom, was in a chair to my left. We were in Charlie’s office, a nice little renovated house off Edgehill Avenue in Nashville not far from the Vanderbilt campus. They had driven down from our home near Johnson City early that morning while I was flying down, talking to Lana and Paul, and going to the arraignment. As Caroline had suggested early on, I had hired Charlie to help me with the defense of Paul Milius, and I’d given her a retainer of $50,000. She was to bill against the retainer at $200 an hour, a relatively low rate for lawyers but one that was fair since she was somewhat new to the game. I’d paid for her attention for two hundred and fifty hours, which bought me a lot of legwork and a lot of research. After that, if I needed more, I’d have to refill the tank.

  Jack was still in law school, but he was about to begin his last semester and was cruising. I’d offered him fifty dollars an hour to do investigative work, paralegal work, and whatever else we needed. He seemed satisfied with both the money and the opportunity to get into something real.

  “It’s an uphill battle, but I’ve seen worse,” I said. “I talked to Pennington Frye—he’s the assistant district attorney who’s handling the case—and he said they have a small piece of skin that was lifted from between the victim’s teeth. The DNA test says the skin belonged to Paul before he apparently smacked her in the mouth and left it there. They can put him at her hotel near the time she was murdered through his driver, and I wouldn’t be surprised if they have video of Paul coming and going through the lobby. They must have more, too. I’ve seen prosecutors indict on nearly nothing, but this is a high-profile case. They won’t want to be embarrassed.”

  “What does Milius have to say about the skin?” Jack asked.

  “I haven’t gotten into it very deeply with him,” I said. “I want to talk to him when his wife isn’t around and I’m not worried about someone eavesdropping on the conversation. I’m not sure how many people he has working at the house, but it seems to be quite a few. I’ll talk to him later, but I want you to take a run at him first, Charlie.”

  “Me? Why me?”

  “He apparently likes younger women. Smile at him and be nice, but ask him some tough questions.”

  Charlie smiled and said, “Love to.”

  I was happy for Charlie. She’d been through a terribly difficult time a year earlier after she found a fortune in gold in a cave on a piece of land that a neighbor had willed to her. She later learned that the gold had originally belonged to a gangster from Philadelphia back in the thirties, and eventually both her father and uncle were killed by the gangster’s son. She’d finally had the cave’s entrance blown up to seal the gold in and had moved away. She’d traveled around for a while before settling in Nashville, mostly, I think, because of her feelings for Jack. She was renting a little farmhouse outside Mt. Pleasant, had enough land to keep her horse and her uncle’s dog, and was building her own law practice. All those things made her tough and resilient in my eyes, and I admired people who were tough and resilient.

  “I’ll set it up,” I said. “It’d probably be best if you talk to him here. He’ll want you to come to him, but I’d rather you do it on your own turf.”

  “Anything besides the skin between the teeth?” she asked.

  “Talk to him about his wife, how well they get along. Ask about problems in the marriage, things like that. It appears that he spent the night, or part of the night, in a hotel room with the victim, who was an eighteen-year-old girl. He didn’t get there until two in the morning, so I seriously doubt that his wife knew where he was. Even if she did know, I doubt she approved, so get what you can out of him about that. Talk to him about the girl. See what his reactions are, whether you feel like he was in love, in lust, or whether their relationship was primarily about business. Remember that if he had anything to do with her death, about 90 percent of what he tells you will be a lie.”

  “I’m getting better at it,” she said.

  “At what?”

  “Listening to lies. And recognizing them when I hear them. It seems to me that being good at this profession is all about learning to deal with liars.”

  “Don’t get too confident about thinking you can recognize them,” I said. “I’ve been doing this for almost three decades, and it’s still hit or miss for me.”

  “What about me?” Jack said. “What can I do?”

  “You can start with the music business. Find people in the profession that she was close to, people associated with her record label—producers, musicians, singers, anybody and everybody. Try to get a handle on what went on at that CMT show, whether anybody saw or heard anything unusual. You both need to understand that we’re behind the cops. We have to catch up, and hopefully, we can find a way to get a step or two ahead of them eventually. They have more resources than we do, but once they make an
arrest, they tend to move on to other cases until it’s time for the trial. We have some time. We just have to work hard. We also have to start thinking about the SODDI defense.”

  “SODDI defense?” Charlie said, raising her eyebrows.

  “Some Other Dude Done It,” Jack said with a smile. “I heard it plenty of times when I was younger.”

  “If our client didn’t do it, we need to be able to give the jury some viable alternatives,” I said. “It’s similar to conducting our own police investigation. The main difference is that we exclude our client at the beginning and don’t even consider that he might be guilty.”

  “But what do you think, Dad?” Jack said. “Do you think he killed her?”

  “He says he didn’t. There is evidence that suggests otherwise, although not an overwhelming amount at this point. At this stage in the game, I’ve been paid $1 million to believe my client, so that’s what I choose to do.”

  “And if at some point you change your mind?”

  “I’m not giving them a refund, so I guess I swallow it and do the job.”

  “And while Charlie is talking to Milius and I’m running around Nashville, what are you going to be doing?”

  “The first thing I’m going to do is take Lana Milius to dinner and try to find out where she stands on all of this,” I said. “I talked to her briefly before the arraignment, but I want to pin her down on some things. Then I’m going to get some sleep, get up tomorrow, and spend as much time as I can talking to the household staff. Like I said, I’m not sure how many there are, but I want to talk to every one of them. I got the sense that some of them are very deeply involved in the Miliuses’ lives. As soon as I’m finished, I’m going to get back on that fancy private plane and go home and find out everything I can about Kasey Cartwright.”

  “How long are you going to stay? A week?”

  “Nah, I’ll be out of here in two days. One if possible.”

  “Why?” Jack said. “I mean, why so soon?”

  “Because I already miss your mother.”