Raising Cain (31 page)

“What?”

“A petition involving Ruth.…”

“Injunctive relief for harassment?”

“I think so.”

“What lawyer filed the petition?”

“Uh…
King
,” Judy exclaimed. “Kent King. But—”

“Damn!”

“But Mr. Lawson,” Judy continued, “it was withdrawn prior to filing. I pulled it out myself.”

“On whose orders?”

“Mr. King’s. Had me pull it
before
it was logged.”

“Judy, think hard,” Gardner said. “Was that before or after Ruth died?”

“
After
, I’m pretty sure. Mr. King made a joke about the guy being dead.”

“Judy, this is
very important
. Do you remember the name of the police officer?”

“Uhhh… it was… Officer Davis!”

“Frank Davis?”

“That’s who I remember.”

Gardner wrote the name in huge black letters on his pad. “Judy, you’re a doll. I owe you big-time.” He thanked her and hung
up. So it
was
Davis after all, just as he’d suspected. Brownie was
not
the cop after Ruth. And “Special Prosecutor” King had known it all along.

Jennifer walked up the front steps of Valley High School. She had decided to follow up her visit to the evidence vault with
some additional investigation.

Jennifer checked at the front desk and confirmed that Miss Bertie was in the principal’s office. She had never met the legendary
teacher, the person whose lessons had shaped a generation.

“Go right in,” the receptionist said.

Jennifer entered and found a gray-haired woman grading papers. “Miss Bertie,” she said tentatively, “I’m Jennifer Munday.
We spoke earlier.”

The teacher eyed her as if she were late to class. “Sit down, please.”

“Thanks. I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

Miss Bertie laid her marking pencil aside. “No, dear. I’m just getting caught up on exam papers.… What did you say your name
was again?”

“It’s Munday, but I’m not from around here. I went to school in Baltimore.”

“That’s nice, dear.”

“I’d like to talk to you about a couple of your former students.”

Bertie adjusted a cable-knit sweater draped around her thin shoulders. “Are you a lawyer?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Good for you, dear.”

“Thank you. I want to know about the Brown brothers, Joseph and Paul. They were students here almost twenty years ago. They
lived in Blocktown.”

“Blocktown,” Bertie repeated.

Jennifer nodded. “Paul and Joseph Brown. One has been on the police force for some time as a sergeant—”

“And he’s in trouble.”

“Right. I’m one of his attorneys. Do you remember him as a student?”

The teacher nodded. “Nice boy. Smart. Polite. Friendly.”

“That’s him. Tell me about Paul. What was he like?”

“He was a scalawag, not like Joseph. He was always getting into scrapes. He’d fight at the drop of a hat, didn’t matter how
big the boys were or how many. He didn’t care.”

“Did Joseph ever fight?”

“No.” Bertie moved her sharp chin to the side. “Not that I remember. He got along with everyone, had a lot of friends, white
and black.”

“But how did the two brothers relate to each other?”

“As well as brothers can, I suppose.”

“So they were friendly?”

“Yes, as I recall. Until the incident.”

“Incident?”

“The vandalism case.” Bertie frowned deeply. “They almost destroyed the school, those little thugs I haven’t thought about
that for a long time.”

“What happened?”

“They tore the history room up, spray-painted the walls, ripped up books… such destruction!”

“Was Paul Brown involved?”

“Yes, my Lord. He was the main one.”

“So he was a student at the time?”

“Yes, a senior. The older one had already graduated and joined the police.”

Jennifer made a note on the back of an envelope.

“That was such a shame,” Bertie said suddenly.

“What?” Jennifer looked up.

“What they made him do.”

Jennifer put the envelope in her purse. “Who?”

“The older one, the nice one,” Bertie said wistfully. “I could never understand
why
they did that… why the police made him arrest his own brother.”

Gardner was pumped up. He stopped by the courthouse to obtain a copy of the log where King’s injunction motion had been noted
and then raced to King’s office to confront him with the facts.

King was wearing reading glasses, poring over a file. “This better be good,” he said. “I’m
very
busy.”

“Take a look at this,” Gardner said, passing the log across the desk. The entry regarding King had been circled in red marker.

The special prosecutor picked up the paper, read it slowly, and put it down on the desk. “So?”

“You knew that Ruth was being harassed by a police officer
before
he was killed,” Gardner charged. “You knew it was
Davis
, not Brownie, and you kept it quiet.” King’s expression was calm, almost bored, as Gardner continued. “You suppressed exculpatory
evidence and indicted a man you knew was innocent. As a prosecutor, you fucked up.”

King laughed. “How long have we known each other?”

“Too long.”

“Really,” King continued, “how long? Seven, eight years?”

“Yes. So what?”

“Do you have
that
low an opinion of my intelligence? Do you really think I would expose myself to that kind of allegation?”

The normal answer would have been no; King wasn’t that stupid. But with the change of sides and the new perspective, maybe
he’d slipped.

“First of all”— King removed his glasses—“I am and have been fully aware of this from the beginning. I
did
see Ruth, I knew that Davis was bothering him, and I
did
prepare the injunction. But after Ruth died, I canceled the pleading, and I interrogated Davis at length about the allegations.”
King reached into his desk and took out a piece of white paper. “Davis was polygraphed, and he passed with flying colors.
I concluded with absolute certainty that Davis was clean and eliminated him as a suspect.”

“But you obstructed justice,” Gardner blustered. “You had a duty to disclose your relationship with Ruth before accepting
the appointment as special prosecutor!”

“Not so. I took the job with a commitment to find and prosecute Ruth’s killer. Davis, in fact, was my
first
suspect, and had he not been cleared, he’d be standing trial now. My actions were proper in every respect.”

“So why was Davis jacking up Ruth in the first place?”

“Bird-dogging a promotion.
You
set the agenda for the CAIN surveillance, remember? Ruth was implicated in Old Man Brown’s death, all that shit? Davis got
caught up in the hunt, figured if he made Ruth confess, he’d be a hero and get the recognition he deserved.”

Gardner frowned. “At the very least this is exculpatory information. You had an absolute obligation to turn it over to me.
Remember the
Brady case
? You
have
to reveal evidence that clears the defendant!”

“
Brady
doesn’t apply here,” King replied coolly. “I confirmed that the information did
not
exculpate Brown. I followed the lead, and satisfied myself that Davis did not commit the crime. There was nothing exculpatory
to report.”

“I still should have been told,” Gardner argued. “I could use it at trial—”

“Not
now
,” King interrupted. “I was planning to inform you about it until you came up with the suicide defense. Now I don’t have to
give you anything.”

Gardner realized he was right. The someone-else-did-it defense and the suicide defense were mutually exclusive. By choosing
suicide, he had abandoned the legal argument that a third party had killed Ruth. In that situation, proof of someone else’s
involvement became irrelevant. He couldn’t have it both ways; he had to choose one or the other.

“Have you changed your mind about suicide?” King asked.

“No.”

“Then you get no discovery under
Brady
. I don’t think you intend to tell the jury, ‘Ruth killed himself, and oh, by the way, if you don’t believe that, someone
else did it.’ You see your dilemma?”

“Yes,” Gardner said bitterly. “I see it.”

“
You
decided to go this way, and I didn’t force you. Now what were you saying before about beating me?”

Gardner stood up suddenly and started for the door.

“Have a nice day.” King chuckled.

Gardner turned. “I still want those medical records. The affidavit to Ransome certifies a good-faith effort to obtain them
without success. The ball is in your court, and you’d better turn them over.”

King crossed his arms. “For the fiftieth time, I don’t have the fucking records.”

Gardner pointed his finger. “Then you’d better get them.”

King saluted as Gardner slammed the door. The Davis lead had been a total disaster. It wasted time, went nowhere, and allowed
King to humiliate him. How could he have screwed up so badly? As a prosecutor, this never would have happened. But he was
not a prosecutor anymore. And that fact was painfully obvious.

Brownie entered the driveway of his mother’s house and braked suddenly to avoid a vehicle parked behind Althea’s sedan. The
car was a shiny full-sized job, polished and waxed, fitted with every bell and whistle in stock.

Brownie opened the kitchen door and entered quietly. “God’s will be done,” Reverend Taylor’s voice echoed from the parlor.
Brownie moved into sight of the sofa.

“Joseph Junior,” Althea exclaimed.

Reverend Taylor stood up and almost spilled his coffee.

“Mama,
Reverend
,” Brownie replied, moving closer.

“Brother Brown,” Taylor said.

Brownie kissed his mother on the cheek. “How’re you doin’, Mama?”

“Reverend Taylor was just paying me a visit,” Althea responded guiltily. She had always been a member of Reverend Boyd’s congregation.

“During these hard times,” the reverend began, “I try to comfort… as I can. “

“I’m sure you do,” Brownie answered.

“So how goes it with you, Brother Brown, since you saw fit to abandon the efforts that we were attempting on your behalf?”

Brownie looked him in the eye. “I didn’t abandon you.”

Taylor lifted his cup toward his lips. “You got yourself a new lawyer.”

“That was done
for
me, not
by
me.”

“Reverend Taylor says that everyone in Blocktown is praying for you, son,” Althea interjected.

“I appreciate the help,” Brownie said to Taylor. “I know what you all tried to do. Just didn’t work out, that’s all.”

Taylor smiled. “We were trying to hold it together for you, brother, trying to come up with our own solutions to our own problems.”

“But it’s
my
problem,” Brownie replied.

Taylor put down his cup and stood. “I can see that you two need time together,” he said. “I’ll be on my way, got more folks
to visit today.”

“Thank you for coming,” Althea said.

“Keep the faith,” Taylor replied. “And remember what I said.” He turned to Brownie. “God be with you, brother.”

“When did that start, Mama?” Brownie asked when he and his mother were alone.

“What, son?” She looked disappointed that her visitor had departed.

“How long has he been comin’ over here?”

“For a while now. I’ve been lonely, depressed. He’s been helping.…”

Brownie felt discomfort. He’d been scarce around here, almost nonexistent. Being in jail was one thing. Mama visited him there
a lot. But after his release, he’d avoided her.

“You haven’t paid me much mind,” Althea continued.

Brownie put his arms around her, squeezing tightly. “Sorry, Mama,” he said against her head. “Really sorry.”

“I’m tryin’ to understand, Joseph,” she said.

“I’ll do better, Mama, I really will.” They embraced for a minute without talking. Finally, Brownie let go.

“Mama, I need to ask you something. Have you heard
anything
from Paulie?”

Althea frowned. “Why, son? Is this about the killing?”

“No, Mama. Not at all. I’m just wondering how he’s doing.”

Althea shook her head. The sadness in her life seemed never-ending.

“Has he been in touch with you lately?”

Althea shook her head again.

“Has he called?”

“Just one time.”

“And what did he say?”

Althea’s eyes teared. “That he didn’t want Daddy’s money.”

Brownie raised an eyebrow. “You sent him the pension?”

“A piece of it. But he sent it back. He’s such a proud boy.”

Brownie suddenly wasn’t listening. His eyes were locked on Taylor’s coffee cup. “Mama, do you think I could get something
to drink?”

“Sure, son.” Althea stood and walked toward the kitchen. “Coffee?”

“That’s fine.”

Althea disappeared, and Brownie took out his pen, poked it through the handle of Taylor’s cup, and lifted it.

“Cream and sugar?” Althea called.

“Black,” Brownie replied, carefully covering the cup with a napkin and placing it in his coat pocket. He’d noticed Taylor
touch the side of the ceramic when he’d laid it down, an ideal surface for fingerprints.

Gardner and Jennifer navigated the twisting road to the house on Watson Road where Carole and Granville lived. It was Sunday
afternoon. Snow was falling, and Christmas was two weeks away. Gardner and Jennifer had been so preoccupied with Brownie’s
case, they hadn’t prepared for the holiday. So now they were off on a tree-cutting expedition.

“I’m worried,” Jennifer said.

Gardner glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. “About what?”

“About whether we’re doing the right thing. We shouldn’t be so rigid with Brownie’s defense. We have to keep our options open.”

“Jeez, Jen,” Gardner complained. “There aren’t any options. You know that.”

“But it isn’t… right.”

“It may not be
right
, but it’s all we have, and we have to make the best of it. Stick with me on this and I’ll make it up to you, Jen. When it’s
over. I promise.”