Joe Dillard - 01 - An Innocent Client (18 page)

”It’d be like a dream, but she’d remember it.”

”Would she be responsible for her conduct, legally, if that’s what happened?”

”Probably not. I think I’d be able to testify that under those circumstances she would
not
be responsible for her conduct. At that point, she wouldn’t have been able to discern the difference between right and wrong.”

”The problem is that in order for us to assert that defense, she’d have to admit she killed him.”

”That’s right.”

”She says she didn’t kill him.”

”I know.”

”So where does that leave us?”

”She didn’t tell me she did it, so as far as I’m concerned, she didn’t do it. Everything I’ve told you is purely theoretical.”

”Have you made notes on all of this?”

”Of course.”

”Shred them.”

Since I had Tom’s attention, which was sometimes hard to get, I decided to ask him about Junior Tester.

I described to him in detail everything that had happened between us, including the look of torment and hatred on Junior’s face the night I went to his house.

”Was it a mistake?” I said.

”Actually,” Tom said, ”going down there wasn’t as bad an idea as you might think. You may have showed him there could be serious consequences to his actions. Maybe you shocked him back into reality, at least for a little while. Have you seen him since?”

”No.”

”You must have frightened him.”

”He didn’t look scared. Do you think I’ll see him again?”

”Can’t say for sure.”

”Is it likely?”

”I’d say it depends.”

”On what?”

”On how you portray his father in the courtroom if you go to trial. You might want to give that some serious consideration.”

June 25

4:00 p.m.

After the meetings with Diane and Tom, I was both confused and concerned. I decided it was time to go have a serious conversation with my client. I wanted to discuss some of the more incriminating evidence with her, but more important, I needed to see how well Angel would hold up under cross-examination.

If I could catch her in a lie, so could the district attorney.

She wasn’t shackled or handcuffed when the guards escorted her into the interview room—apparently she was no longer considered a security risk. I’d asked her what she wanted me to call her after I found out her real name. She said she wanted to be called Angel. Mary Ann, she said, was gone.

”How are you holding up?” I said.

”I’m okay. The guards are nice to me.”

Each time I went to visit, I was struck by something different: the smoothness of her skin, the contours of her face, the fullness of her lips. She was an extraordinarily beautiful girl, a fact that made what I was about to do even more difficult.

”There are a couple of things I need to ask you about, some things that are bothering me. I want you to tell me the truth.”

A puzzled look came over her face, but she nodded.

”First off, I need to know about your relationship with Julie Hayes.”

”What about it?”

”Do you have any idea why she would tell the police that you and Erlene left the club right after Reverend Tester the night he was killed?”

”What? Julie said that?”

I reached into my briefcase, pulled out a copy of Julie’s statement, and set it down in front of Angel.

”This is a copy of the statement she gave to the TBI. Read it for yourself.”

Angel looked down at the statement for a few minutes and then back at me.

”Why would she say something like that?” she said.

”Good question. Why would she?”

”I don’t know.”

”Did you and Erlene leave the club right after Reverend Tester?”

”No.”

”Are you sure?”

”Yes.”

”Well, Julie says you did, and since she signed this statement, I’m sure she’ll testify at the trial. Is she mad at you about something?”

”I don’t think so.”

”Is she mad at Erlene about something?”

”I don’t know.”

”Was she jealous of the relationship between you and Erlene?”

”She never said anything to me about it.”

”Did you ever see Julie and Erlene argue or fight about anything?”

”No.”

”Did Erlene take you home that night?”

”Yes.”

”What kind of car was she driving?”

She hesitated. ”What?”

”What kind of car was Erlene driving that night?”

”I don’t know anything about cars.”

”Do you know what a Corvette looks like?”

”No.”

”Come on, Angel, it’s a sports car. Shiny and fast.

It would have been red.”

”I really don’t know anything about cars.”

”Was Erlene driving the same car the next day?”

She hesitated again and asked me to repeat the question.

”Erlene took you home with her the night Reverend Tester was killed, right?”

”Yes.”

”She gave you a ride home in her car, right?”

”Yes.”

”Did she have the same car the next day or a different car?”

”I don’t know. The same car, I guess.” She looked upward when she answered. I thought she might be lying, so I stayed with the subject of the car.

”Julie told the police Erlene was driving a red Corvette the night Tester was killed. She said Erlene got rid of it and was driving a different car the next day.

Is that true?”

”I don’t think so.”

I sighed. I wanted to believe her, but the vagueness of her answers wasn’t helping. I decided to press harder, so I raised my voice a notch and slammed my palm down on the table.

”Is that what you’re going to tell the prosecutor when he asks you the same question on the witness stand? Are you going to say ‘I don’t think so’? If that’s what you’re going to say, he’ll tear you apart.

Now give me a straight answer! Was Erlene driving a different car the next day or not?”

The sound of my hand on the table had startled her, and I could tell the tone of my voice was beginning to unnerve her.

”No. I think she was driving the same car.”

”You think? You
think
she was driving the same car? That’s not good enough, Angel. That’s an evasive answer. Juries don’t like evasive answers.”

”What should I say?”

”How about the
truth
? This is just between you and me. If you tell me Erlene was driving a different car the next day, I’m not going to run out and tell the police, and I’m not going to tell Erlene that you told me.”

She folded her arms across her chest and crossed her legs—the classic defensive position—and started rocking back and forth in her seat. She was obviously struggling with herself, trying to make some kind of decision.

”Miss Erlene didn’t kill anybody,” she said finally.

”I didn’t say she did.”

”That’s what you’re thinking. I can tell.” She was right. I was beginning to believe that Angel was protecting Erlene. If she was, it was a mistake that could cost her her life.

”Julie says Erlene switched cars the day after Tester was murdered. Julie says you and Erlene left the club right after Tester left. Now, either Julie’s lying, or you and Erlene are lying. If Julie’s lying, I need to know why. If you’re lying, I need to know why.

Now, who’s lying?”

”Julie’s lying.”

”Why?”

”I don’t know.”

”Then tell me about Erlene’s car. Did she switch cars the day after Tester was killed or not?”

”No.”

I was back to square one. Julie was lying and the only explanation I could offer a jury was that she was a drug addict, perhaps bitter, or perhaps jealous of the relationship between Erlene and Angel. I didn’t know whether a jury would buy it.

”You can uncross your arms now.”

”What?”

”People cross their arms when they feel like they’re being threatened or attacked, Angel. It’s a sign of defensiveness, and I don’t want you to do it if you ever get up on a witness stand. Now tell me about the bruise on your face. The one the police took a picture of.”

She hesitated again and unconsciously raised her fingers to her cheek. Her eyes began to blink quickly.

”I got hit by a door,” she said.

”When?”

”The day after, I think.”

”Where?”

”At the club. I was about to walk through the door and someone opened it from the other side. It hit me in the face.”

”Erlene told me you didn’t go back to the club after Tester was killed.”

”Oh, right, well, it must have been the day before, then.”

”The same day Tester was killed?”

She nodded.

”You’re sure?”

”Uh-huh.”

”Who was on the other side of the door?”

”I’m not sure.”

”You don’t remember who hit you with a door so hard it put a bruise on your face?”

”It was Heather. I remember now.”

Small beads of perspiration were forming on her forehead, and I decided to ease off. I wondered whether Heather would confirm that Angel had run into a door, and I made a note to have Diane Frye speak with her. Angel had self-consciously unfolded her arms and placed her hands on the table. I noticed they were discolored—not severely, but they were both slightly pale to about an inch above her wrist.

I remembered Erlene telling me to ask Angel about her hands. Very gently, I touched one of them.

”Did something happen here?” I said.

”I burned them when I was little.” The words were flat, monotone, and the expression on her face went completely blank.

”How?”

”I was making oatmeal for my brothers and sisters.” She paused for a long moment. ”And I . . . I dropped the spoon into the pot … by accident.” She paused again.

”And?” I said.

”Mother Betty. She pushed my hands down into the oatmeal and made me get the spoon out.”

”Jesus, Angel. And your hands look like that from the burns?”

She nodded.

”How old were you?”

”I’m not sure. Maybe five. Or six.”

I shuddered. She’d described the event as if she were describing a walk down an empty hall in a burned-out building. She’d become distant, disconnected, as though she’d suddenly been unplugged.

”What about your adopted father? Did he do bad things to you, too?”

Another nod.

”Do you want to tell me about it?”

Tears were forming in her eyes. She didn’t answer the question. She didn’t have to.

”Did it happen a lot?”

She nodded again as a tear slid down her cheek.

”Angel, is there something you’re not telling me?”

She started to speak but stopped herself. I suddenly realized I was in a tug of war, and Angel was the rope. Someone else was pulling on the other end, and I suspected it was Erlene. She broke into tears and stood up, leaning against the table. Her shoulders began to shudder and her lips were quivering.

21

The intensity of the sobs increased with each passing second, and before I knew it, she was hysterical.

”Please,” I said when she paused for breath after a high-pitched wail, ”you need to stay calm, Angel.

All I want is the truth.”

She gave me a look that told me I’d gone too far and gathered her breath.

”Why
won’t
you
believe
me?”
she shrieked. ”I told you I didn’t kill him! Why are you asking me all these questions? I thought you were on my side! I thought you were my friend!”

She turned and started to pound on the door with her fist.

”Wait, please. Please calm down, Angel. I
am
on your side.” I got up from the table and reached out to touch her arm.

”Don’t
touch
me!
Stay
away
from
me!”

The door opened and she nearly fell into one of the two guards’ arms. I started out the door towards her, but the second guard stuck his finger in my chest.

”Step back,” he said. He meant it, he was armed, and I had a feeling he would do anything to protect this particular prisoner.

I raised my hands and stepped backwards into the interview room as he slammed the door in my face.

June 28

1:30 p.m.

Ronnie came into the back office on Saturday afternoon while Erlene was catching up on her paperwork. She could see right away that something was bothering him. Ronnie had this cute little cleft in his chin, and when he was upset he set his mouth a certain way and the sides of the cleft swelled up like little knots on a birch branch. The cleft reminded Erlene of Gus, which was only natural since Ronnie was Gus’s nephew. He wasn’t as handsome as Gus, but he was still a looker, tall and well built, with dark blond hair and blue eyes. Erlene just wished he didn’t have those icky tattoos all over him. They came out of his shirt up his neck and ran clear down his arms to his hands. They made him look like a thug.

”What’s the matter, sugar?” Erlene said. ”You look like somebody just shot your dog.”

”They shorted us again.”

Shitdammit. Erlene hated that he was bringing up such unpleasantness, especially after the visit she’d had with sweet little Angel down at the jail. Angel was as tore up as Erlene had ever seen her, poor thing. She said Mr. Dillard had come down and asked her all sorts of embarrassing questions. She even asked Erlene if she thought they needed a different lawyer, but Erlene set her straight real quick on that. Mr. Dillard was exactly what they needed.

Erlene talked to Angel for as long as they let her stay, and by the time she left, she could tell Angel was feeling a whole lot better. Erlene even managed to make her smile a couple of times. But she still felt so bad for Angel. She’d already been through so much. It hurt Erlene’s heart to see her suffer more.

”How much did they short us?” Erlene said to Ronnie.

”A little over two ounces.”

Erlene didn’t much like fooling with the candy trade, but Gus had made so much money doing it over the years, she’d have been a fool not to pick up right where he left off. It was an all-cash business, and since Ronnie handled the pickups and the deliveries and the inside sales, it wasn’t too much of a bother for Erlene. The problem she was having was that some of the people she bought the candy from were greedy and mean. They were always trying to pull one over on her, as if they thought she wouldn’t notice or wouldn’t do anything about it even if she did. She reckoned because Gus was gone, they thought they could get away with most anything.

Shitdammit, why couldn’t they just play fair?

”Do we have other folks we can use?” Erlene said.

”Four besides these guys. One in Atlanta—”

”Don’t tell me, baby doll. I don’t want to know where they are. I don’t want to know much of anything about them.”

”Sorry,” Ronnie said. He was such a considerate boy.

”I tell you what let’s do, then,” Erlene said. ”First off, you go ahead and deal with your people in Atlanta or wherever you said. Can they give us the same price?”

”The price will be the same and the quality will be better,” Ronnie said. ”The only reason I was dealing with these fools was because they were so much closer and they were willing to meet me halfway.

Saved me a lot of road time.”

”I think it’s worth the inconvenience, don’t you?”

Erlene looked up towards the ceiling and pursed her lips. ”Now,” she said, ”what to do about those others?”

Erlene knew Ronnie had a mean streak in him as wide as the Tennessee River, but underneath all that meanness, he was really a good boy. He’d just hit a few bumps in the road was all, although Erlene had to admit that Ronnie hit the bumps a little harder than most boys. He’d spent several years down at the state penitentiary in Morgan County after he got into some trouble with the law. When he got out, he didn’t have a place to go and couldn’t get a job, so he called his uncle Gus. Gus had always felt close to the boy and invited him to come up to work in the club. When Ronnie got there, Gus sat him down and told him that if he’d pay attention and be honest, Gus would see to it that his brother’s oldest son made a good living.

Erlene had to give Ronnie credit; he took right to it. The first thing Gus told him was that people who sell candy have to stay out of the candy. One of Ronnie’s biggest problems when he was younger was that he snorted and smoked so much candy he couldn’t think straight, so Gus told him if he got so much as an inkling that Ronnie was using, he’d be gone. The second thing Gus told him was that he who steals pays the price. Ronnie had gone to prison for stealing, among other things, and Gus told him he wouldn’t tolerate his stealing a single dime.

Ronnie went to work in the club, tending bar and selling candy. Gus kept a close eye on him the first year, and he did a wonderful job. Before long, he was pretty much running Gus’s whole candy business. Gus got to where he trusted Ronnie so much that if something went wrong, Gus just stepped back and let Ronnie take care of it. And from what Gus told Erlene, Ronnie was excellent at taking care of problems, especially if it involved Ronnie getting to hurt somebody.

The best part, though, was that Ronnie never stole the first penny. Erlene was proud as punch of that boy, although she suspected his honesty was at least partly due to the fact that he was afraid his uncle Gus would kill him if he took anything. Gus wasn’t a man to trifle with, especially when it came to money.

After Gus died, Ronnie asked her whether he could keep doing what he’d been doing. Erlene thought about all the money Gus had made and said, ”Sure, sugar. I’d be a fool to make you stop.” Ronnie paid Erlene every night, cash, like clockwork. Ronnie had turned out to be a real good boy, and Erlene kind of felt like she was at least partly responsible.

”Tell you what,” Erlene said. ”How about you just go ahead and do whatever you think Gus would have told you to do. I don’t even have to know about it.”

”Sounds good to me.”

”That’s wonderful,” Erlene said, ”and speaking of dealing with bad people, I have another little problem I’m going to need you to help me with.”

There was a certain girl needed tending to, and Ronnie was the right man for the job.

July 1

10:10 a.m.

The Tate woman wrote to Maynard Bush out of the blue. Maynard figured killers must get her hot. He didn’t have nothing better to do, so Maynard wrote back. He wasn’t real good at writing, but what the fuck?

He knew enough to get by. She wrote again and he wrote again and before Maynard knew it, they’re writing to each other every few days.

Maynard laid it on thick as jelly on a biscuit.

Played her like a goddamned banjo. At first he was just fucking off, but then he got a bright idea. He didn’t know if it would work, but it was sure as shit worth the try.

First thing Maynard did was talk his dumbass lawyer, Joe Dillard, into fixing it so the Tate woman could visit him. Then he started working on her. He shoveled so much shit on her she damned near turned brown. He told her he was lonesome and that he needed a friend. It was a lie. Maynard didn’t have friends and didn’t want none. They always just ended up pissing him off, and then they ended up dead. To Maynard, killing a human being wasn’t any different than killing a dog or a rabbit.

When he told Bonnie Tate he needed a friend, Maynard could see it damned near broke her heart, so he just kept pouring it on. He told Bonnie how when he was a boy his mama was a drug addict and his daddy got hauled off to prison. It was about the only thing Maynard told Bonnie that was true. He told her he went to bed hungry every night, which was bullshit. He told her he didn’t have no shoes that fit. Another lie, good enough to make her cry.

When she cried, it made Maynard think of how he used to make his baby cousin cry. When the girl’s mother turned her back, Maynard would pinch the little bitch up under her arm as hard as he could and she’d wail like an ambulance passing in the night.

Maynard never did get caught. He was too damned smart and quick.

Four days before Maynard’s trial was supposed to start, he made sure Bonnie came to visit. It was time to take his shot.

”You’re my only visitor, you know,” Maynard said as he gazed across the table at the plump, homely brunette. ”You’re the only person I trust.” He watched her close. She was eating it up.

”I want to thank you for everything you’ve done for me, Bonnie,” Maynard said. ”You gave me hope when there wasn’t none left.” Maynard had to concentrate as hard as he could to keep from gagging.

He’d told a couple of his buddies at the jail that Bonnie Tate was ugly enough to make a freight train take a dirt road.

”I think about you all the time, Bonnie. I dream about you every night. I think maybe I love you.”

She looked at him and he could see tears forming in her eyes. It was working.

”Do you think maybe you love me, too, Bonnie?”

She nodded. ”I think maybe I do, Maynard.”

”If I was to ever get out of this place, would you stay with me, Bonnie? Please say you’d stay with me.

It’d mean so much to me.”

”I reckon I’d stay with you.”

”Bonnie, I need to ask you something. It’s real important, and you can’t breathe a word of it. Can I trust you?”

”You know you can trust me, Maynard.”

”If I was to tell you I know a way out of here, would you help me? Would you, Bonnie? It’s the only chance I’ve got. They’ll kill me if you don’t help me.”

It didn’t take her long to say yes.

”Okay then,” Maynard said. ”You listen real close now. You gotta do exactly what I say.”

July 2

9:05 a.m.

I walked into Judge Glass’s courtroom a little after nine and took a seat in the back behind a column where the judge couldn’t see me. Sarah and her appointed attorney had worked out an agreement with the assistant district attorney, and she was about to enter a plea. To my relief, there were no reporters in the jury box.

I’d lost a lot of sleep thinking—and worrying—

about Sarah. As time passed, I’d gotten over the anger. I still thought Sarah needed to pay for what she’d done, but I knew prison time wouldn’t do her any good. I’d never seen prison time do anyone any good.

She’d agreed to plead guilty to two counts of felony theft, to accept the minimum sentence of three years on each count, and to forgo a probation hearing. The two three-year sentences were to run concurrently. Under Tennessee law, she’d be eligible for parole after serving ten months, and I had every intention of speaking on her behalf at her first parole hearing. Because of the overcrowding in the state penitentiary system, inmates who were sentenced to less than three years served their time in the county jails. That meant Sarah wouldn’t be shipped off to the women’s prison in Nashville but would stay in the Washington County Detention Center. I’d be able to visit and try again to patch things up. I should have already gone down to see her, but I was afraid we’d just end up in the same old place.

Judge Glass was his usual cantankerous self, barking at defense attorneys and sniping at defendants.

A woman in the audience had forgotten to turn her cell phone off, and when it rang, Glass ordered her to the front and castigated her so fiercely that she was reduced to tears.

He called Sarah’s case twenty minutes after I sat down, and a bailiff brought her in. She looked small and frail in the baggy jumpsuit, and I thought the handcuffs and shackles were totally unnecessary. She shuffled to the podium and stood looking at the floor.

”State
of
Tennessee
versus
Sarah
Dillard,”
Judge Glass said. He looked at Lisa Mayes, the assistant district attorney. ”Is this Mr. Dillard’s sister?”

”She is, Your Honor.”

I hoped Glass wouldn’t use his dislike for me as a reason to reject the plea agreement and give Sarah a harsher sentence. I scooted down in my seat.

”What did she do this time?” Glass said.

”She stole Mr. Dillard’s daughter’s car and a necklace that belonged to Mr. Dillard’s wife,” Mayes said.

”She traded the necklace for cocaine and wrecked the car.”

”So she’s an indiscriminate thief,” Glass said. ”She steals from everybody in the family. How’d she get the keys to the car? She break in?”

”No, Your Honor. As I understand it, she had recently been released from jail and Mr. Dillard had taken her in. He was trying to help her. This is how she repaid him.”

I was hoping Glass would just go through the motions and not ask any questions. It was a run-of-themill plea. He took hundreds of them every year.

”This judgment form says she was charged with two Class C felonies,” Glass said. ”I read her presentence report last night. She’s been stealing and drugging for almost twenty years. Why are you agreeing to concurrent sentences?”

”We agreed at the victim’s request, Your Honor.

We do it all the time.”

”You mean to tell me Mr. Dillard requested that she only serve three years for this? After everything else she’s done?”