Joe Dillard - 01 - An Innocent Client Read online

  April 27

  6:00 p.m.

  Agent Landers ran three miles a day, at least five days a week. It kept his body tight and helped with the hangovers. The day after he arrested the girl, he was running along Watauga Avenue in Johnson City, thinking he would’ve much rather fucked that kid than arrested her. Damn, she was hot.

  She was also smart enough not to talk. Landers spent an hour in the interrogation room with her after he arrested her. All she’d say was that she wanted to talk to a lawyer.

  Deacon Baker, the district attorney, had called Landers down to his office a couple of days before the arrest. Baker was nothing but a fat, stupid little prude, but he’d somehow managed to get himself elected, so he was calling the shots. Deacon told Landers he was getting a lot of pressure to make an arrest. The victim’s son was a chaplain and deputy sheriff in another county and he’d been calling three times a day. The victim also had a cousin who lived in Carter County and was active in the Republican women’s group over there, and she’d been calling.

  Big fucking deal, Landers told Deacon. Let them call.

  Landers didn’t have much evidence. The night they raided the Mouse’s Tail, they’d interviewed forty people. Nine of them were employees; the rest were customers. Only one person said she recognized Tester, a stripper named Julie Hayes. She said Tester came in around nine, stayed until almost midnight, and got shit-faced in between. She said he was quoting Scripture one minute and getting lap dances the next, and that he took a special interest in a waitress named Angel Christian. Hayes said the preacher and Erlene Barlowe had about a five-minute conversation around eleven thirty. As soon as they were done talking, she said the preacher went out the front door and Barlowe and Angel went out the back. Neither of them came back to the club that night. She also said that up until the day the preacher was murdered, Barlowe drove a red Corvette. The next day, she was driving the black BMW.

  Nobody else in the place gave them anything they could use, which made Landers wonder whether Julie Hayes was telling the truth. Maybe she had some kind of grudge against Barlowe, or the girl, or both. But Landers wrote out her statement and she signed it. She said she was willing to testify.

  The forensics team found some hair on Tester’s shirt, so Landers took the Hayes girl’s statement and parlayed it into a search warrant for Erlene Barlowe’s house the next day. He also persuaded the judge to sign an order saying that both Erlene Barlowe and Angel Christian had to give him hair samples. They hadn’t found a goddamned thing in Barlowe’s house, not even so much as a porn video. Landers took a photograph of the girl, though. She had a nasty bruise on her face.

  There was no sign of a red Corvette. Landers ran Erlene Barlowe’s name through every database the TBI had. No Corvette registered to her anywhere.

  He got a call from the lab a few days later. Two hairs that were found on Tester’s shirt matched the girl. That was the best evidence they had, and as far as Landers was concerned, it wasn’t much. The lab also said the preacher had a date rape drug in his system—GHB, otherwise known as Georgia Home Boy. Whoever killed him drugged him. Everybody knows you can get drugs at a strip bar, but Landers couldn’t prove the drug in the preacher’s body came from the Mouse’s Tail.

  So when he went down to the DA’s office, Landers laid the case out for Deacon Baker. Two witnesses: the stripper who might have a grudge, and a clerk from the motel who saw a Corvette pull in behind Tester around midnight and thought she saw a woman go up the stairs towards Tester’s room. All the other employees at the club denied Tester was there, or at least said they didn’t notice him, but he’d definitely withdrawn money from an ATM at the bar just after eleven thirty. Erlene Barlowe had lied—

  Landers was sure about that—and the others were probably lying. He had a DNA match from the Christian girl, a nasty bruise on her face, a shriveled penis (the medical examiner said it had been removed postmortem), no murder weapon, and a missing car. That was it. Oh, yeah, they also had a gem of a victim.

  Fucking preacher at a strip club. An East Tennessee jury would love that.

  ”Let me keep our surveillance on Erlene Barlowe for a while longer, see if she makes a mistake,” Landers said.

  ”Here’s the real deal, Phil,” Deacon said, ”just between you and me, all right? I don’t give a damn about the victim’s son calling and I don’t care about that old hag over in Carter County. Hell, my secretary takes the calls anyway. It’s no skin off my butt.

  But eight years ago, when I was running for DA for the first time against a powerful incumbent and I needed money the way a fat kid needs cake, that sorry SOB that owned the Mouse’s Tail gave my opponent five thousand in cash as a campaign contribution. Didn’t give me the first dime.”

  ”So?”

  ”I’ve been after him ever since. There have always been rumors that Gus Barlowe was running drugs out of the club, but we haven’t been able to catch them.”

  ”He’s dead, Deacon.”

  ”I know that, but his wife isn’t dead, is she?”

  ”We don’t have any evidence against her.”

  Deacon waved his hand dismissively. ”You know how these things go, Phil. You’ve got a pretty strong circumstantial case. We’ll take it in front of the grand jury, get an indictment, and go arrest the girl.

  She’ll most likely confess or roll on the Barlowe woman. If she doesn’t, I’ll file a death penalty notice and up the pressure on her. Don’t worry about it.

  Let’s go ahead and shake this tree and see what falls out. Hell, this is an election year. It’d be a real feather in my cap to put that bitch out of business before August.”

  Before August. Election year. Put that bitch out of business. None of this shit has anything to do with getting a murder conviction. What Deacon was really saying was that we needed to make an arrest. Didn’t matter whether the girl was guilty, as long as somebody got locked up for the murder. No way it would go to trial before the election, and if it turned out she didn’t do it, so what? At least Deacon would be assured of eating at the taxpayers’ trough for another eight years. Fucking moron. Him and his goddamned tree.

  Landers finished his run and headed inside for a shower. He had a date at eight.

  April 30

  8:45 a.m.

  I smiled at Tammy Lewis, a pretty, green-eyed blonde with a sharp sense of humor and a sharper tongue. She’d worked for the circuit court clerk for twelve years. Her primary responsibility was to sit at Judge Leonard Green’s side during proceedings and ensure that his court ran smoothly. There were two criminal court judges that presided over the four-county circuit where I did most of my work: Ivan the Terrible and Leonard Green the dancing machine. I called Green that because he’d gotten drunk at a Christmas party a few years back and started dancing on a table. Cases were assigned by number.

  Odd numbers went to Glass; even numbers went to Green. Angel’s case was an even number.

  ”Good morning, Tammy,” I said. ”Ready for the circus?”

  ”Meaning?”

  ”I’m representing Angel Christian.”

  Tammy rolled her eyes. ”No kidding? Well, ain’t you just the lucky victim. I guess the question is, are you ready? His royal highness wants to deal with your client first thing. They brought her over from the jail about an hour ago; she’s in the holding cell.

  There are already three television cameras in the courtroom and at least five newspaper photographers. Reporters all over the place. At least you’ll get some free pub out of this.”

  I cringed at the thought of the media in the courtroom. Judge Green was always at his most belligerent in front of the television cameras. He’d often declared his belief that the voting public wanted judges who were tough on criminals, and when the media came to court, he made sure he didn’t disappoint his constituency.

  I walked through the clerk’s office and into the hallway that ran parallel to the courtroom. When I reached the door, I stopped and stuck my head inside. Judge Green was not yet
on the bench. Green and I had a long history of bickering that sometimes turned downright nasty. I thought he was pompous and effeminate. He thought I was a belligerent Neanderthal. Both of us were probably a little bit right.

  The jury box was filled with television cameras, newspaper photographers, and reporters. I noticed they started huddling as soon as they saw me walk through the door and sit down at the defense table.

  Six uniformed Washington County sheriff’s deputies flanked the courtroom. Six was a number reserved for the most dangerous defendants, and I certainly didn’t think Angel qualified. The gallery on the civilian side of the bar was nearly full; there were close to a hundred people in the audience, most of them criminal defendants and their families. They would wait their turn without complaint, hoping to appear before the court in anonymity after the press had packed up and left.

  District Attorney Deacon Baker was talking to a television reporter from Bristol near the jury box.

  Baker rarely made court appearances and hardly ever participated in trials, but he never missed an opportunity to preach the virtues of justice and law enforcement in front of the media. Baker’s newest lead assistant, Frankie Martin, a bright but unseasoned youngster, sat at the prosecution table rummaging through a file.

  At precisely nine a.m., Wilkie Baines, one of the criminal court bailiffs, strode to the front of Judge Green’s bench and faced the crowd. The door to Green’s chambers opened and the judge seemed to glide through the door, his perfectly groomed silver hair freshly cut, his black robe flowing behind him.

  ”All rise,” Baines called in his best town-crier voice. ”The criminal court for Washington County is now in session, the Honorable Leonard P. Green presiding. Please come to order.”

  Judge Green climbed the steps to the bench and took his seat in the high-backed black leather chair directly beneath a massive portrait of himself.

  ”Thank you, Deputy Baines,” he said. ”Please be seated.”

  I, along with everyone else in the courtroom, dutifully sat down.

  ”Good morning,” Judge Green said.

  ”Good morning.” Nearly everyone in the courtroom responded, as though they feared the consequences of remaining silent.

  ”The first case we’re going to address this morning is an arraignment in the State of Tennessee versus Angel Christian.” He turned to the prosecution. ”And I see that the district attorney himself has chosen to grace us with his presence today. To what do we owe this rare pleasure?”

  Baker’s face flushed the slightest bit. He stood up.

  ”This is a serious case, Your Honor. I’m merely here to ensure that all goes well.”

  ”And to get yourself a little free publicity in an election year, I trust.” Baker thought Judge Green was soft on sentencing sex offenders and wasn’t shy about saying it to the local media. Baker had also openly and actively supported the judge’s opponent in the last election. He was fond of telling people he wouldn’t piss on Judge Green if the judge were on fire. Green, for his part, took obvious pleasure in harassing and humiliating Baker every chance he got.

  I’d seen them nearly come to blows on several occasions. They truly hated each other.

  ”I didn’t invite the press,” Baker said. ”I believe their presence here has something to do with the First Amendment.”

  ”You may not have invited them, but you’ve certainly had plenty to say about this case over the past week. You’ve been on television more than Law & Order reruns.”

  Baker plunked back down into his chair, either unwilling or unable to spar with the judge, and Judge Green turned to me.

  ”What are you doing at the defense table, Mr.

  Dillard?”

  ”Representing the defendant, Judge.” I knew he preferred ”Your Honor.”

  ”Has she hired you?”

  It was a stupid question, but I resisted the urge to say something smart.

  ”She has.”

  Judge Green raised his eyebrows at me as if to say,

  ”How much did she pay you?” He turned towards the deputy nearest the door that led to the holding cell and barked, ”Bring in the defendant.”

  The deputy disappeared into the hallway. He returned in less than a minute with Angel beside him.

  The shackles on her ankles forced her to shuffle. Every camera was suddenly pointed in her direction. The courtroom went dead silent. Just behind the deputy and Angel were two more deputies and K. D. Downs, the sheriff of Washington County. Everybody was getting in on the show.

  The bailiff gingerly escorted Angel to the podium in front of the jury box, directly to the judge’s right.

  I noticed that he patted her on the shoulder before he stepped back. Angel looked tired, scared, confused, and gorgeous. I walked over and stood by her at the podium.

  Green turned to Tammy Lewis. ”Let me see the indictment.”

  She handed the document to the judge. He studied it for a few seconds and then offered it to Wilkie Baines.

  ”Give this to Mr. Dillard, and let the record show that the defendant’s counsel has been provided a copy of the indictment. Mr. Dillard, your client has been charged with one count of first-degree murder and one count of abuse of a corpse. Do you waive the formal reading of the indictment?”

  ”We do, Judge.”

  ”How does your client plead?”

  ”Not guilty.”

  ”Very well.” The judge looked at Deacon Baker. ”I assume you’ve filed your death notice, Mr. Baker?”

  ”We have, Your Honor. We filed it this morning.”

  With the number of stab wounds, the case was probably second-degree murder at best. It certainly appeared to be a crime of passion. But Baker handed out death notices like grocery stores hand out coupons. It seemed that every murder defendant got one. He did it because it gave him an effective bargaining chip—Baker was notorious for offering to take the death penalty off of the table in exchange for a guilty plea just before trial, no matter how heinous the murder.

  ”What about scheduling?” the judge said.

  ”We’d like a speedy trial,” I said. ”Miss Christian is incarcerated without bond. Since she’s charged with a capital offense and since she’s not from this community and really has no ties here, I’d be wasting my breath to ask you to set a bond. But she maintains her innocence and wants a trial as soon as possible.

  I think I can be ready to go in three months.”

  Baker stood up. ”There is no way the state could be ready in less than nine months, Your Honor. This is a death—”

  I cut him off. ”I didn’t want to get into this, Judge, but since Mr. Baker is going to resist a speedy trial, there are some things I think you should know about.

  As you know, I’ve been doing this for a long time, and I’ve never had a case quite like this one. The police and the district attorney have let everyone know that the victim in this case is a preacher. What they haven’t told anyone is that he spent his last night on earth getting drunk at a strip club. Nobody knows where he went between the time he left the club and the time he was killed. This isn’t one of those cases where the police have the killer dead to rights. My client swears she didn’t see the victim after he left the club. She swears she didn’t kill him, and she shouldn’t have to wait almost a year before a jury hears this case.”

  ”I object to this!” Baker yelled. ”Mr. Dillard is taking this opportunity to sensationalize this case and poison the potential jury pool.”

  That’s exactly what I was doing, but I wasn’t about to admit it.

  ”All I’m doing,” I said, ”is asking you to set this case for trial as quickly as possible so an innocent young girl doesn’t have to sit in jail any longer than necessary.”

  Judge Green ruminated for a few minutes and then looked down at Baker.

  ”God created heaven and earth in six days, Mr.

  Baker. Surely you can be ready for trial in ninety. If you weren’t ready to prosecute her, you shouldn’t have indicted her. H
ow long is it going to take to try the case?”

  ”A week, maybe less,” I said.

  ”I have an opening on July twenty-fourth. That’s just under three months from now. Mr. Dillard, since you’re the one who asked for a speedy trial, I won’t expect to see you back in here asking me for a continuance. I’ll send you a scheduling order that will deal with pretrial conferences, expert disclosures and deadlines, motion deadlines and plea deadlines. Anything else?”

  ”No, Judge, not from us,” I said. It was the same week that we were planning to go to the Braves game, but I didn’t say anything. It wouldn’t have made any difference. It was also only ten days before the August 3 election. It had to be Judge Green’s not-so-subtle method of applying pressure to Deacon.

  ”Miss Christian,” the judge said, ”they’ll bring you over from the jail on July twenty-fourth and you’ll get a fair trial. It will be your responsibility to see to it that you have civilian clothing, and I won’t allow the jury to see that you’re restrained in any fashion.

  I’ll see you then unless there are motions or unless you decide to change your plea.”

  The bailiff took Angel by the arm and led her towards the door. I followed. Just before we reached the door, I noticed a man walking quickly towards the bar that separated the attorneys from the gallery.

  He was about six feet tall, wearing a blue polyester suit. I’d seen pictures of John Paul Tester in the newspaper. This guy looked like a younger version. The hair was shorter and darker, but he was working on the pot belly and he had the same muttonchop sideburns. He was pointing at Angel.

  ”A fire is kindled in mine anger, and shall burn unto the lowest hell!” he yelled. Everyone froze at the power of his deep voice. I stepped between him and Angel, more fascinated than frightened. ”And shall consume the earth with her increase, and set on fire the foundations of the mountains! They shall be burnt with hunger, and devoured with burning heat, and with bitter destruction. I will send the teeth of 1 0

  Scott Pratt

  beasts upon them, with the poison of serpents of the dust. You have taken my father’s life, Jezebel, and upon you, I swear revenge.”