The Accused and the Damned: Book Three, the Eddie McCloskey Series (The Unearthed 3) (18 page)

“Corner pocket.”

Giles tapped the cue stick near the pocket he meant, then thread the eight ball through two of Eddie’s stripes perfectly. The eight fell. Giles was up five games to one.

“Let’s switch to nine,” Eddie said. “Keep it competitive.”

“Want me to spot you the nine?”

Eddie smiled. “Fuck you.”

By the third game, he was wishing he’d taken Giles up on his offer.

Saturday night, after eleven. Giles had put away five bourbons but was rock-steady on his feet. And his pool game was clearly unaffected.

The next game, Giles ran to the eight.

“What if Anson’s guilty?” Eddie said.

Giles missed the eight. “You do that on purpose?”

Eddie smiled. “Gotta get in your head somehow.” Eddie sank the eight, gave himself a nice leave on the nine for the side pocket, sank that.

“Do you think he is?” Giles went to the other end of the table to rack.

It was all Eddie had thought about the last few days. And his answer surprised him. “I don’t, but it’s the simplest explanation which means he’s probably guilty.”

“Like your brother, you love to worship at the altar of William of Ockham.” Giles finished racking, carefully removed the triangle.

“When a smart guy speaks, it’s wise to listen.” Eddie scattered the rack.

“I miss your brother. Very much.” Giles sat in the high chair near the pool table and rested his cue against his leg. “We had our differences but I really miss him.”

“You two used to go at it. Worse than me and him. Sometimes it was like you were his brother, not me.”

“Yin and yang, ego and id. Your brother and I were a dialectic. We didn’t make sense without the other.”

That was overstating it, but Eddie wasn’t in a disagreeable mood. The talk was good, as good as the memories.

“You remember the last New York gig we all did together?” Eddie said.

“Of course. How could anyone forget the time you ran through the house wearing the client’s double D bra?”

Not where Eddie had been going but he smiled all the same. He’d never do something like that now, which made him question one of his deeply held beliefs: people didn’t change.

He had changed. He didn’t drink, didn’t drug it up anymore. Was hard-working, honest. The old self-destructive Eddie was gone and replaced by a quasi-respectable professional. It pleased him but also made him a little sad, a little nostalgic.

“I was thinking about that night in the field …” Eddie let his mind go back. “It was us, my brother, Stan, that girl you were …”

“That lady who was a professional colleague. Sharon.”

“Right. Sharon. And the gun nut.”

“If by gun nut, you mean Ben, the patriotic, god-fearing, NRA-card carrying bloke, then yes. What made you think of this?”

“I’ve been thinking a lot about protocol. How Tim did things and why. How you did things and why.”

“The fundamental tension,” Giles said. “Between order and chaos.”

Eddie lined up his next shot and sank the four. He stymied himself behind the seven, had to play a safe.

“Tim had us locked in, everything in order. I remember walking around, not a care in the world. Never thinking for a second that something could go wrong on a simple investigation like that.”

Giles nodded his appreciation at Eddie’s safe, then surveyed the table. Those eyes of his missed nothing. Eddie saw a way to the seven, which meant Giles certainly did too and probably had designs on the nine already.

Giles said, “One can never predict how any complex system will fail.”

“Get all of your philosophy out of Michael Crichton’s books?”

Giles started his run. “When a wise man speaks, I listen. Economists like to think they understand how human beings will act, and maybe they do on a macro level. But once you move from the herd to the individual, you get variances and a lot of unpredictability.”

Eddie watched with an amateur’s appreciation Giles’s expert run to the nine ball. He left himself a little bit too much angle on a cross the table shot.

Giles stood up to rechalk, looked at Eddie. “We’re not the rational beings we think we are, Edward.”

Edward. Nails on a chalkboard.

Giles split the pocket on his shot, ending the game. “Introduce a little fear, a little panic, and people start behaving instinctually, not with their brains.”

“Or as I like to say, the shit hits the fan.”

But Giles was having none of it. “Not necessarily true. Everyone forgets that the subconscious mind has evolved along with the rest of us. It is very good at picking up on warning signs that our otherwise rational minds might miss or might take too long to identify.”

He was really on an intellectual roll right now.

“The subconscious mind is the part of us that solves puzzles creatively. The rational brain is weak, stilted, too linear to be anywhere near as effective.”

“Maybe that’s true, but it was the gun nut’s lizard brain that almost got me and Stan shot by accident.”

Giles bowed his head. “I never said the subconscious was perfect.”

Eddie sat down.

Giles said, “You look like you want to say something.”

“I can’t help it. It’s just how my face looks.”

Giles smiled. “Anson’s not guilty, Edward.”

“Then who is?” Eddie asked.

Giles looked at him sideways. “Mary Oliver, of course.”

“Of course,” Eddie said.

But he didn’t really believe it.

On Monday Green and Spencer took six hours to pick a jury. At that point, it was already three-thirty so the judge continued the hearing until the next day rather than try to squeeze in opening statements before close of business. That night, Green expressed delight at the composition of the jury. Seven women, five men. Women were good because the fairer sex statistically speaking did not like to send accuseds to their deaths. Eddie knew it wasn’t his place to question the lawyer’s infinite wisdom, but he couldn’t help pointing out that the victim in this case was a woman. No, no, Green assured him. Despite woman’s lib, men still saw themselves as protectors and were more likely to convict an accused woman-killer.

Eddie let it go and the two men continued to hone Eddie’s testimony, working into the wee hours of the night. Green gave him some more pointers and then proceeded to bitch about Judge Metnick, who’d apparently overruled every single one of Green’s objections for the last twenty years, ever since the judge had taken the bench. Eddie indulged the lawyer, listened to his exaggerated tales of all the miscarriages of justice till he could stand it no longer.

“You know what, Green? Nobody I met when I was inside was innocent.”

“Yes, but did the state play fair, Eddie? If not the whole system is flawed.”

“What do we tell children when they do something wrong? Own up to it, right? We don’t give a shit how they were found out. They’re supposed to come forward and say, I did it. Why should adults be less accountable than children?”

Green frowned. “But you’re talking about a man’s liberty and in this case, possibly Anson’s life.”

It was late. Eddie didn’t feel like arguing. Besides, he was right anyway.             

* * * *

The next morning Eddie arrived at the courthouse early enough to avoid the throng of reporters that were expected. The name of the building was written in all capitals across the frieze on the front of the building:

WHEELER COURT HOUSE

He got a sense of deja vu but knew that was his brain playing tricks on him. He’d seen those words, or something close to them, somewhere recently. In a book maybe … yes, he could picture the book but nothing else … where was he that he’d seen this in a book recently …

A bailiff pointed him in the right direction down a long hallway. He found the right courtroom but didn’t go inside. Instead he backtracked till he found an empty conference room nearby. He went over his notes and looked again at the police report and Anson’s statements to the police after his arrest.

A few minutes later he heard Gracie Barbitok and her retinue come down the hall and settle in another room nearby. Green didn’t expect Eddie to testify that day, figuring the prosecution would take up the day to present its case, but there was always a chance. And Green wanted Eddie to hear the testimony of all the prosecution’s witnesses, not just Gracie Barbitok’s.

A little after eleven, Green opened the door to the conference room. “The preliminaries are over. The judge is opening up the court room now.”

Eddie followed the little old lawyer into the courtroom and took a seat on a wooden bench in the back. There was no leg room and the bench was as comfortable as a guillotine. Gracie and two of her assistants entered and sat across the aisle from him. She tipped her head at him. Eddie gave her a little wave.

Green crossed the bar and sat with Anson at one of the two tables. Anson wore an off-the-rack suit and was clean-shaven, his Winnfield conspicuously absent, the skin around his mouth a shade whiter than the rest of his tanned face. The accused looked over his shoulder and smiled at Eddie.

The DA stood over the other table and was reviewing some paperwork. Ross stood behind him on the other side of the bar.

The bailiff led the twelve jurors in. Seven women, five men. Aged twenty-one to sixty-five. All county residents, five of them from the town itself. They all carried tiny legal pads and pens and styrofoam cups of cheap coffee. Many of them did not look at Anson as if they were already distancing themselves from the criminal and any taint of the crime.

Eddie flashbacked to his own trial, years ago now. It had been a rote affair, both sides having already worked out a deal. No need for a jury. The judge listened to the details of the plea bargain, asked Eddie some questions like he was reading from an arcane script, approved the conviction, banged his gavel, sent Eddie on his less-than-merry way.

Eddie had known fear that day, when the justice system has used but a fraction of its might against him. Anson wouldn’t be so lucky. The full weight of the institution would be brought to be bear on him. The man must have been terrified.

“All rise.”

The ritual reminded Eddie of church. A robed authority figure would appear and the congregation was expected to stand and show respect. The leader resolved any disputes by referring to a set of heavily-disputed principles that had been in flux for thousands of years. The bar, like the chancel, separated the lay people from the initiated.

Judge Metnick wore the standard black robe and took the bench. He was in his sixties and his mouth was set in a permanent scowl but his eyes were sharp.

“Please be seated.”

The DA gave his opening statement. It was an impassioned plea for justice and an appeal to cold, immutable logic. Nobody else was in that house except Anson. Nobody else had a motive to kill Alice. There was no evidence to support a burglary or home invasion gone horribly wrong.

The DA referred to Anson as Mr. Ketcher, but called the deceased “Alice” or “the victim” in his gravest moments: “Alice, the victim.” Mr. Ketcher and Alice had a rocky marriage. Mr. Ketcher had a history of violence—a reference to which Green quickly objected.

Alice had tried to do right by her husband. Had tried to honor her commitments. It had been her idea to attend couple’s counseling, despite Mr. Ketcher’s initial objections and subsequent feet-dragging and later half-hearted participation. She had prayed and she had stayed. Prayed and stayed. It was a cheap catchphrase but it stuck in Eddie’s mind.

Ultimately the Ketcher marriage wasn’t working. At her wit’s end, she went as far to seek the help of a psychic—

All twelve heads on the jury turned at this.

—and Alice finally made the last resort decision to seek a divorce.

“Compare that to the behavior of Mr. Ketcher over the last year. He reneged on the couple’s agreement to attend counseling more than once. He took to drinking despite his alcoholic tendencies. He had his friend, Giles Tyson, follow Alice around to keep tabs on her whereabouts despite her years of model behavior.”

Eddie groaned inwardly. They’d known how strong the DA’s case was going into the trial, but to hear the words and watch their effect on the jury was staggering. The DA continued, painting a dismal picture of a bad marriage and a shining, glossy portrait of a good woman struggling to reconcile her faith with her marital unhappiness. By the time Spencer was done, they’d be ready to canonize Alice.

“Fact: No one else was in the Ketcher residence that fateful, tragic evening. Fact: No one else had motive to kill Alice. No one except Mr. Ketcher. Fact: There is no evidence that this was a robbery or home invasion. Fact: Alice planned to divorce Mr. Ketcher, and Mr. Ketcher became aware of this. Fact: Mr. Ketcher was the sole beneficiary of Alice’s life insurance policy and the primary beneficiary noted in Alice’s will. Fact: Mr. Ketcher’s contractor business has not turned a profit in two years. Fact: Mr. Ketcher was wounded the night of the Alice’s murder. Fact: …”

Eddie kept his poker face but mentally squirmed in his seat. He’d been so focused on the paranormal, he’d forgotten about Anson’s financial motives to kill his wife.

“And when questioned about his wife’s murder, do you know what Mr. Anson said?” The DA looked every juror in the eye before speaking again. “A ghost did it.”

Jaws dropped. Eyes bulged.

“A ghost did it. That’s right. And as we sit here today, the defense still contends that a supernatural being snapped Alice’s neck because … well, they’re not exactly sure why. Now you’re going to hear all manner of strange things from the defense. You may or may not believe any of them. But even if you do believe that ghosts exist, consider this: the only purported communication from this ghost was a denial of guilt.”

The DA summarized his points for the next few minutes, but the jury was still stunned by the revelation of the defense’s case.

Fifteen minutes later, Judge Metnick told defense counsel it was his turn.

Denard Green stood and smoothed his suit jacket and approached the jury with a shuffling gait and a smile.

“I find it amusing that the DA points out that we don’t know why the ghost killed Mrs. Ketcher.” He paused thoughtfully. “Don’t get me wrong, we have our theories. But the same can be said of the DA’s case against Anson. They simply don’t know why he would kill his wife.”

Several jurors frowned.

“They don’t know why he would kill his wife so they’re using what we call the spaghetti approach. Throw everything against the wall and see what sticks. They’ve painted Anson as a jealous man, one prone to fly into violent rages, a man governed by his primitive passions as opposed to his intellect … and in the next breath they suggest his motive was financial. They’ve drawn Anson as a failed businessman, one facing financial ruin if there was a divorce … and in the next breath they suggest he killed Mrs. Ketcher because of his violent nature, that he was unable to ignore his proclivities.”

Green turned to face the DA and held up his arms. “Well, which is it?”

Eddie wished he could see the DA’s face but he figured Spencer wasn’t the least bit flustered. The man was an old pro.

Green turned back to the jury. “Which is it? Are we talking about cold, premeditated murder? If so, why did Anson attempt to call 911 and then flee the scene on foot? You’d think any man who’d prepared to commit murder would come up with a better plan of execution and escape than that.

“Or are we talking about manslaughter? If we are, the financial motives dreamed up by the DA don’t follow. If this was done in the heat of the moment, then Anson wasn’t thinking about the money.

“Remember the burden of proof that Judge Metnick explained. It is the DA’s job to prove beyond a reasonable doubt that Anson is guilty. It is the DA’s job to prove that this was murder or that this was manslaughter, and so far I haven’t heard one way or the other.”

Green mimed throwing something against the wall, right over the jury. “Spaghetti, spaghetti, spaghetti. Throw as much against the wall and see what you can get to stick.”

Green went on to explain the Ketchers’ history from Anson’s perspective, retelling and reshaping the DA’s story. He went on in his deliberate, almost ponderous way for twenty minutes.

“The District Attorney has drawn your attention to some facts. Well, he left out a few that you need to consider.”

Green put his hands in his pockets and stepped a little closer to the jury box.

“Fact: Mrs. Ketcher herself believed their house was haunted. Fact: Mrs. Ketcher herself went to see a psychic. Fact: After Mrs. Ketcher herself attempted to remove the ghost from the home, the ghost visited them on an increasingly frequent basis and became more and more agitated …”

Something shifted in the back of Eddie’s mind. That wasn’t exactly true. The ghost had become more troublesome after Giles had performed his investigation. Maybe it was something that Giles had done while on-scene that had agitated the spirit. Eddie filed that away for later.

“ … Fact: Mrs. Ketcher sought advice on spirit-channeling and reverse possession. Now let me explain what that is …”

Eddie drifted while Green rattled off the facts of the case the DA had not mentioned and in his mind went over his testimony for the thousandth time. He tuned back in a few minutes later.

“ … Fact: At this point, there is plenty of supporting evidence that establishes a ghost did inhabit the Ketcher residence. And here is where we get into theory because, unfortunately, we were not able to conduct a complete investigation of the Ketcher residence. Why? Because it burnt down before we had a chance to. Given the increasingly violent behavior of the ghost, it is not a stretch to believe that the arson was her work.”

Eddie gauged the jury’s reaction. He spotted a few eye-rolls. He and Green had argued for hours about how to approach the burning of the house. Eddie thought blaming the ghost for the arson was a stretch but Green argued that he needed to push the jury. To them, a ghost burning down a house might be implausible … but that would make their principal argument, that the ghost had killed Alice, a bit more palatable. Green likened it to asking for a grand when all you needed was a Benjamin. You were more likely to get the hundred doing it that way.

Eddie had told Green it was an apples-to-oranges comparison but the lawyer didn’t relent.

“Mrs. Ketcher attempted to drive the ghost from their house. Anson did no such thing. Mrs. Ketcher attempted to channel the ghost. Anson did no such thing. Mrs. Ketcher attempted to reverse possess the ghost. Anson did no such thing. We begin to see a pattern here.

“Mrs. Ketcher was the one who agitated the ghost. And the ghost retaliated against her. The District Attorney can’t put his finger on a motive for Anson to kill his wife—maybe it was financial, maybe it was personal—but we can point to a clear motive here with the ghost. It was threatened by Mrs. Ketcher. Rather than rely on professional, paranormal help, out of fear of community backlash, she took things into her own hands and suffered the consequences for it.