The Closing: A Whippoorwill Hollow novel (The Whippoorwill Hollow novels) (16 page)

“I don’t know. I suppose you could be right, but that doesn’t explain Judge Herring’s behavior. Why would Judge Herring be involved in framing Washington and the other men?”

“Maybe the judge wanted to ensure convictions of men he was convinced were guilty, and Jones was a willing accomplice. You said the judge used Swiller to convict Creighton Long to protect Buck County. Maybe the judge convinced Jones they should rig the other cases to protect the county’s law-abiding citizens from murderers.”

“I can understand why the judge rigged Long’s trial,” Garth said. “He was a serial killer of children, and he was about to get off on a legal technicality. But Jimmy Washington, Kenny Deatherage, and the others were just run-of-the-mill defendants. They could have been innocent for all the judge knew. Why would the judge deny these men a fair trial?”

“Pieces of this puzzle are missing. We have to find them to answer that question.”

“I don’t think you understand what you’re up against, Mister Abbitt. Judge Herring’s influence is immeasurable. He can destroy his enemies with the clap of his gavel, the stroke of his pen. Anyone who attacks him risks his career. Maybe his life.” Sweat dotted Garth’s forehead. His eyes were fearful.

“Don’t worry, Mister Garth. I won’t tell anyone you helped me.” Nate stood and extended his hand. “Let me know if you find out anything more about the capital cases.”

It was late morning when Nate left Garth’s office. The temperature had climbed into the nineties. The sun baked the asphalt parking lot and oil was pooling in its low spots. The inside of the car felt like the belly of a furnace. Nate rolled down all the windows, started the car, and quickly drove out of the lot. Sweat poured down his face and drenched his shirt. He headed down Ewell Street to rejoin Clarence at the motel, but he slowed when he saw Clarence walking on the sidewalk, clutching his briefcase to his chest. When Nate pulled to the curb, Clarence sucked in his breath and stumbled backward.

“Clarence. It’s me. Nate.”

Clarence squinted at him and scrambled into the car.

“What are you doing on the street?” Nate said.

Clarence was breathless and sweating. “Jones came to the motel looking for you. I was lucky to get away.”

“What did he want?”

“He came to arrest you for Crawford’s murder. You better get off the road before he sees us.”

Nate turned off Ewell Street and coasted down an alley that ran between two rows of dilapidated buildings. He parked in the shade behind an abandoned building with boarded-up windows. A mangy dog stood by an overturned trash barrel at the end of the alley. The dog looked at Nate’s car and trotted away. There was no one in sight.

“Tell me what happened,” Nate said.

“A car pulled up outside the motel room. Someone tried to get in, but I had the door locked. I heard Drinkard ask the man at the door what he wanted. I recognized Jones’ voice when he answered. He said he was looking for you. He said you beat Crawford to death with a tire iron they found at the quarry and he had come to arrest you for murder. Drinkard said you drove off first thing this morning. Jones said he wanted the key to the room so he could search it. Drinkard ran off to get the master key. I was afraid Jones would hold me for questioning if he found me in your room, so I crawled out the bathroom window and hotfooted down the dirt road behind the motel to Ewell Street. I couldn’t see, so I followed the sidewalk till you came along. I didn’t even know which way I was headed.” Clarence shook his head. “I’ve got a bad feeling about Jones’ search of your car yesterday. Did he take your tire iron?”

“He looked at it, but he put it back in the trunk.”

“You better check to see if it’s there.”

Nate got out of the car and looked in the trunk. He didn’t see the tire iron beside the spare tire, where it had been before the search. He removed everything from his trunk, looking for it. The tire iron was not there. He got back in the car. “It’s gone.”

“I figured as much. He stole it. He’s going to frame you with it the way he framed Deatherage with the bloody scarf.”

“He didn’t take it when he searched the trunk, and it’s been locked since then. I’ve had the car keys the whole time.”

“Did you give your trunk key to him to unlock it?”

“Yes.”

“He used wax or clay to make an impression of your key. I’ve done it a few times. You hold something soft, like wax, in your hand, and you press the key into it. Later you make a duplicate from the impression in the wax. He made a duplicate key, unlocked your trunk last night when we were asleep in the room, and stole the tire iron. You’re too close to the truth. They have to stop you.” Clarence took off his hat and wiped sweat from his face with his shaking hand. “It’s just a matter of time till the deputy finds you. We’ve got to close this thing out right now or you’ll go to jail for murder.”

“We don’t have enough evidence to close it out. Did you learn anything new on your phone calls this morning?”

Clarence put his hat back on and got his notepad out of his case. “In all the excitement I almost forgot. An old buddy of mine in the postal service gave me Daniel Updike’s addresses going all the way back to his first residence, more than forty years ago. There was another bombshell in there.” Clarence held his notepad close to his glasses. “In 1929 Daniel Updike lived at 33 University Circle, Apt. 3B, in Lexington.”

“That rings a bell.”

“That’s where Swiller and Judge Herring lived when they were in law school. Updike, Swiller, and Judge Herring were all roommates at Washington and Lee.”

“The judge and Updike were close friends.”

“Right. That little tidbit gave me a reason to call Bob Fleming again. You remember him?”

Nate nodded. “Updike’s neighbor, the one who doesn’t like him.”

“Right. I asked Bob if he ever heard of Judge Herring. Bob said the Herrings used to visit the Updikes years ago. The Herrings are big-time Catholics, like the Updikes, and here’s the kicker—the Herrings are Darlene Updike’s godparents.”

Nate raised his eyebrows. “So Darlene Updike was in Bloxton to visit the Herrings.”

“You bet.” Clarence flipped back a few pages on his pad, pointed to a line of his notes, and held it up to Nate. “And remember Tilly, the waitress? She said Darlene stayed at Judge Herring’s house except when she got drunk and he threw her out. Maybe the judge was trying to help her with her drug and alcohol addiction.”

Nate leaned back and looked out the window. He suddenly understood the judge’s need to convict Deatherage. “The judge’s goddaughter was killed in his own county right under his nose. He drove out to Dealeton that day and talked with Eva Deatherage about her son. She said he cried. Eva thought he was worried about Buck County’s residents, but he was looking for something else out there. He wanted confirmation that Deatherage was Darlene’s murderer. Eva gave it to him. She told him her son had a history of choking and torturing animals and that he once tried to choke her. That removed all doubt from the judge’s mind.”

Clarence shook his head and frowned. “Deatherage never had a chance. I’m surprised George Maupin didn’t object to the judge trying this case. George is known all over the state as an honest prosecutor.”

“George didn’t know about the judge’s relationship to Darlene. The judge issued a ruling in the case to discourage him from finding out about it. My guess is no one in Buck County knew about it except Swiller and Jones and whoever else conspired with them.”

“We should take what we’ve found to George. He’s a good man. He’s got the power of the state behind him as commonwealth’s attorney. He can protect you while he investigates these crimes.”

Nate stared at the old brick wall of the abandoned building beside the car. Some of the bricks were crumbling, and red dust piled at the foot of the wall. Nate recalled the look of fear on George’s face when they discussed the judge. He remembered George’s warning not to take aim at the king unless you knew you would kill him. “George won’t move against the judge without solid evidence that would knock him off the bench.”

“We’ve got a lot of dirt.”

“We don’t have enough to bring him down. We can prove he presided over the trial of a man accused of murdering his goddaughter. That’s a violation of the rules of judicial ethics, but it’s not a crime. Besides, it’s almost impossible to remove a judge from the bench in Virginia if he doesn’t want to step down. The only way to force a judge out is to convince the House of Delegates to impeach him, and then the Virginia Senate has to try him and vote him out. No judge in Virginia has been removed in over fifty years. The last time anyone tried, the judge involved had bribed a man and the House of Delegates impeached him for it, but the Virginia Senate wouldn’t vote him out so he retained his judgeship. Judge Herring has a long clean record and a good reputation. We don’t have anywhere near enough evidence to force him off the bench.”

“But the judge was in cahoots with Swiller and used Jones to falsify evidence.”

“We can’t prove that. We suspect the judge told Swiller to throw the Deatherage case and told Jones to lie about the bloody scarf, but all we can prove is that Swiller and the judge were law-school roommates. We don’t have hard evidence of anything beyond that. Swiller’s dead and Jones will lie to protect himself. We don’t have enough.”

Clarence swiped his hand over his mouth. “There’s got to be a way. What about Eva Deatherage’s criminal complaint? It proves the scarf was in her store when Darlene was murdered.”

Nate shook his head. “I thought of that, too, but it doesn’t work. Jones can claim I altered the date on the carbon copy to implicate him and save my own neck in the Crawford investigation. Eva Deatherage has no independent recollection of the date of the robbery. She can’t back me up. And that evidence goes against Jones. It doesn’t prove the judge was involved with him.”

“Jones had no motive to frame Deatherage. The judge must have told him to plant the scarf.”

“That’s our assumption, but we can’t prove it. We need more evidence.”

“We can’t search for more evidence. Jones will arrest you if you show your face in Bloxton, and I can’t do legwork without help. I think we ought to take what we have to George Maupin and let him run with it.”

Nate thought about George again. “I don’t think George can help us. He won’t take the risk of accusing the judge of a crime without rock-hard evidence and a virtual certainty the judge will be removed from the bench.”

Clarence snorted. “Damn.” They were quiet for a while. Then Clarence said, “Let’s go outside Buck County. Judge Blackwell has no reason to fear Judge Herring. He won’t believe this poppycock about you killing Crawford. He respects you.” Clarence hesitated. “At least that’s the way it used to be.”

Nate looked at a pile of brick dust at the base of the wall. A bluebottle fly scurried over the dust and then flew away. From Nate’s meetings with the judge about sobriety, the judge knew every despicable act Nate had committed while drinking, and Nate had confessed his recent relapse. The judge might well believe Nate got drunk, lost his temper, and killed Crawford, especially in the face of apparently solid forensic evidence. The judge protected Nate from prosecution twice, but he warned Nate that he would face the harsh consequences of his actions alone if he slipped and fell again. “I can’t go to Judge Blackwell on this one, Clarence. I’ve drawn from that well too many times.”

Clarence cursed again. “Maybe I could dig up something more on the phone if I knew what I was looking for. What do we need to nail the judge?”

“I don’t know. Time is short, and people in this county are afraid of him. Our best shot would be something that would force him to resign. We need evidence so strong and embarrassing that he would rather step down than have it publicized. At this point, I doubt anything other than a confession would do us much good.”

The dog that Nate saw earlier peeked around the corner of the building and stared anxiously at them. He lowered his head, crept back to the overturned barrel, and pawed through the trash.

Clarence turned to Nate with a curious expression. “Have you ever worn a wire?”

Nate and Clarence drove out of Bloxton just after noon in search of a place to hide so that the sheriff’s men would have no opportunity to arrest Nate for Crawford’s murder. Heat rose from the road and the blue mountains on the horizon paled to gray in the haze. Nate looked for a location where they couldn’t be spotted from the road and where there was some shade to protect them from the blazing sun. About five miles out of town, he found a deserted lumber mill that met his requirements. He drove into the lumberyard and parked in a shed filled with corroded band saws, pulleys, and chains. A rusted-out logging truck hulked against a wall in the shadows. Cobwebs stretched across its busted windshield.

Clarence got out of the car and carried his case to a rotting workbench and Nate followed. The pungent scents of decayed wood and sawdust filled the shed. Clarence placed his case on the bench and opened it. A pistol was jammed in a pocket on the inside lid of the case.

“I didn’t know you carried a gun, Clarence.”

“Smith and Wesson. Good weapon.”

“Have you ever fired it?”

“Not at a live target. I go to a firing range every so often to keep sharp.”

Nate imagined Clarence peering through his thick lenses at targets he couldn’t possibly see. Nate marveled at the old boy’s refusal to give in to the infirmities of old age. Nate looked at the jumbled contents of the case—handcuffs, thumb cuffs, leg manacles, a ring of keys, a flat file, a walkie-talkie, a tangle of electric wires, and other gadgets he couldn’t identify. Clarence withdrew an object that looked like a miniature transistor radio, a small tape recorder, and a set of earphones.

Clarence took off his hat and used a handkerchief to wipe sweat from his hatband. “I never had occasion to use a listening device when I was with the sheriff’s office,” he said, putting his hat on again. “After I retired, an old buddy at the FBI gave me this setup and showed me how to use it. This thing is a microphone and transmitter. You tape it to your body. It picks up sounds near you and sends them by radio signal to this battery-powered recorder. The recorder makes a recording of the sounds. We’ll strap the mic to you and go see the judge. You tell him what we found out, and we’ll see what he says. I’ll run the recorder and listen in with earphones from a hiding place nearby.”

Nate looked at the devices askance. “Operations like this require experience and planning. We have no experience and no time to plan. This could blow up in our faces.”

“I can’t think of another way to get what we need to protect you from the judge, but you’re right that it’s risky. Things could go real bad. You’re the one facing the murder rap. It’s your call.”

Nate picked up the miniature transmitter and turned it over in his hand. A chain saw buzzed somewhere in the distance. A hot breeze blew through the shed, ruffling Nate’s collar. “I’ll give it a try, but let’s plan it out as best we can.”

They spent the afternoon discussing the logistics of taping the judge. They thought it would be too dangerous to approach him in the courthouse. He would have ready access to the sheriff’s men there and would have Nate arrested as soon as he appeared. They decided to approach the judge at home, where he would be isolated from the sheriff’s men and others. They thought a late night visit had the best chance of catching him with his guard down. But beyond those broad details, they realized they didn’t have enough information to plan the taping. Nate knew the location of the judge’s farm, but he had never set foot on the property. They had no map of the land and no floor plan of the house.

“We’ll improvise when we get there,” Clarence said.

“Winging it could get us killed. We don’t know the house. We don’t know how many rooms there are or their layout. We don’t know where the judge sleeps. Suppose he has a gun or employs a bodyguard or an armed security guard. What if one of the sheriff’s men guards the property? How do we deal with the judge’s wife or a visitor or guest? There are too many variables. It’s too risky.”

“You’re right about all that, but the way I see it you only have three options. You can turn yourself in and try to beat the Buck County justice system. You can run and hope they never catch you. Or you can approach the judge tonight and hope things break in our favor.”

Nate knew Clarence was right. Trying to tape the judge was the best of three bad choices. They hid in the shed at the lumber mill the rest of the afternoon, tried to anticipate the many problems that could arise, and tried to devise ways to deal with them. The sun set and night fell and they talked on. It cooled down a bit from the heat of the day, but the night was still warm and sultry.

At half past ten they drove to Judge Herring’s farm. Nate turned off the state road onto a paved driveway and stopped the car just inside a stand of white pines. “I’ll walk ahead to scout the terrain,” he said. “Wait for me here.”

The paved driveway ran down a steep hill through a dense forest. The moon was full but the trees blocked out most of the light. At the bottom of the hill Nate came to a little wooden bridge that crossed a trickling creek. Frogs croaked and crickets sang. Stalks of mint on the creek bank gave off a fresh scent. Beyond the bridge, the road climbed another hill. Scores of fireflies winked on the face of the hill. Nate crossed the bridge and climbed the road. At the top of the hill, a white plank gate blocked the road and fencing stretched out on both sides of it. The gate was padlocked. This was as far as the car could go.

Behind the gate, moonlight bathed a broad manicured lawn. A stately two-story colonial home stood in a grove of tall oaks, maples, and sweet gums. The paved road circled a fountain in the center of the lawn. Boxwoods lined a brick walkway that ran from the fountain to a wide front porch. A light shone in an upstairs window. The other windows were dark.

Nate looked at the area around the gate. There was a grassy flat place beside the driveway behind a stand of fir trees. A car parked there would sit about fifty feet from the house and would not be visible from it.

He retraced his steps to the car and reported what he had seen to Clarence, then turned off the headlamps and drove the car slowly down the hill, across the bridge, and up the opposite hill. He steered the car to the grassy spot behind the fir trees and cut the engine. They sat in the car for a while to see if anyone heard or saw the car approach the gate. No one appeared.

Clarence tested the recorder. Nate spoke into the mic. The devices were ready.

Nate said, “How long will the battery have power?”

“Longer than we’ll be here.”

“We’re farther from the house than I would like.”

“If we’re fifty feet away like you said, we should be fine.”

Nate started to get out of the car. Clarence said, “One more thing. We need a signal, code words that mean you’re in trouble and you need me to come running.”

Nate paused, thinking. “I’ll use Deatherage’s full name. If you hear me say Kenneth Deatherage, I’m in trouble.”

“Kenneth Deatherage. That’s good.”

Nate looked at Clarence’s glasses. The moonlight was bright, but Clarence couldn’t see well in full sunlight. “Can you see to find the house if I call you?”

“I’ll follow the driveway’s pavement till I see the house. I’ll make it.” Clarence put on the earphones.

Nate got out of the car, walked to the gate, and climbed over it. He turned back to Clarence. “Can you hear me?” Clarence stuck his arm out the window and waved.

Nate walked to the nearest shade tree, stood behind it, and scanned the lawn and the woods bordering the yard. There was no one in sight. He felt a nudge at his calf and looked down to see a black-and-tan hound. Nate’s heart skipped a beat. The dog slid his muzzle down Nate’s leg to his shoe and then shifted to his other leg. He expected the dog to take a chunk out of him at any moment. The dog looked up at him and whined. Nate didn’t move. The dog whined again. He extended his hand. The dog licked it. He knelt beside the hound and rubbed his ears. The dog wagged his tail. “Good boy. Good dog.” Nate spoke aloud to Clarence. “There’s a dog in the yard, Clarence, but he won’t hurt you.”

Nate crept across the lawn to the house. The dog trotted along behind him. He climbed the steps to the porch. The dog stayed at the base of the steps, looking at him and wagging his tail. Nate peered in a window. The interior of the house was dark except for a wedge of light that poured through an open door on an upstairs landing. The light fell across a spiral staircase and illuminated part of an entry hall. It was late. He guessed the Herrings were preparing for bed.

Nate looked back at the yard. There was a garage off to the right of the driveway and fountain. Its door was open. He could see a black car in the shadows. There were no other vehicles in the road or the garage.

He heard the sound of voices upstairs, of the judge laughing. Nate thought he might be able to sneak into the house while the Herrings were distracted. He turned the doorknob. The door was locked. On reflection, he didn’t know what he would have done if it hadn’t been. Sneaking into the house served no purpose. The judge wouldn’t confess to a prowler.

Nate didn’t know what to do. Forcing the door would only provoke the judge to react defensively. Knocking seemed to be his only viable choice, but when the judge saw him on the porch, he would likely refuse him entry and call the sheriff. Nate could overpower him when he came to the door, but the judge wouldn’t confess to an assailant, either. The idea to tape-record him was ill-conceived from the start. There was no rational plan that would render the desired result.

The light upstairs went out. Nate cursed under his breath. He must act now or walk away. He felt he had no choice, even though he could envision no successful outcome. He took a deep breath and rapped the door knocker. The clanking pierced the silence of the night and jarred his nerves. He waited. Nothing happened. He rapped again. The light upstairs came on. Someone lifted the curtain on a window beside the door and looked out. The porch light came on and the door opened. Judge Herring stood in the doorway in a housecoat and slippers. He didn’t appear to be armed.

“Mister Abbitt? What are you doing here?”

“I need to talk to you, sir.”

“It’s past eleven.”

“I’m sorry about the lateness of the hour, Your Honor, but I have to speak to you about the Deatherage case.”

“I don’t conduct judicial proceedings at home, Mister Abbitt. See me in chambers in the morning.” The judge seemed irritated, but not alarmed.

“The matter I came to discuss is urgent. We must talk tonight.”

“No, sir. You’ll have to wait until morning.” The judge started to close the door.

“I know about you and Darlene Updike.”

The judge stopped cold and looked at Nate. “What are you talking about?”

“Darlene Updike was your goddaughter. You directed Randolph Swiller to throw Deatherage’s case so you could sentence Deatherage to the electric chair.”

The judge’s face betrayed nothing. He looked up at the landing and back at Nate. He stepped out on the porch and closed the door. He looked at the driveway. “I don’t see your car, Mister Abbitt.”

“I left my car on the hill. The gate was locked.”

“You’re quite right. I forgot about the lock.” Crimson flushed the judge’s jowls. He let out a long breath and took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I don’t like the locked gate. It seems unneighborly to me. Sheriff Feedlow insisted I install it. He worries that someone might harm me. I’ve never fretted about it. I trust the people of the county to respect my privacy, but the sheriff was intractable so I relented and installed the damn thing. I don’t lock the gate, though. Betsy must have locked it tonight when she returned from choir practice. She shares the sheriff’s concerns.” The judge looked at Nate and smiled slightly. “You don’t intend to harm me, do you, Mister Abbitt? At least not physically?”

The judge’s wistful demeanor disarmed Nate. He didn’t know what to say.

The judge gazed at the gate. “The sheriff isn’t satisfied with the gate and the padlock. He says they aren’t sufficient to keep a determined intruder at bay. He wants to install an electric fence and man the gate with an armed guard. I suppose you’ve proved the sheriff’s point, Mister Abbitt.”

The black-and-tan hound hopped up on the porch and trotted to the judge, wagging his tail. “The sheriff says Socrates is too docile to serve as a watchdog. It seems he’s correct on all counts.” The judge rubbed the dog’s back. “Not to worry, Socrates. I won’t hold you to the sheriff’s standards. In my book you’re a good dog in all respects.”

Nate thought he saw a tear course down the judge’s cheek, but his face was turned away from the porch light and Nate wasn’t certain. “You’ll have to forgive me for being somewhat shaken, Mister Abbitt. I feared this day would come. I even dreamt about it, but now that it’s here, I don’t know what to do. I suppose no one is ever prepared to expose his failings to the world.” He glanced at Nate’s scar. “I’m sure you understand, Mister Abbitt.”

Nate was confused by the judge’s implicit admission. He’d anticipated arrogance, defiance, even violence, but his assessment appeared to be wildly off the mark.

“I suppose we should go inside and talk,” the judge said. He opened the door and stepped into the entry hall and Nate followed.

A stairway swept around a crystal chandelier to the landing on the second floor. An elderly woman stood in her housecoat on the landing, looking down at them. “Who is it, Edbert?”

“It’s all right, Betsy. It’s Mister Abbitt, a lawyer from Selk County. He’s here about one of my cases.” The judge bowed his head and swallowed. He lifted his face to his wife and managed a wan smile. “You go on to bed, dear. I’ll come along shortly.”

Betsy Herring looked at Nate anxiously. “All right, but don’t be long.” She padded down the hallway to the bedroom.

The judge stared after her. Then he led Nate through a doorway off the entry hall into an office. The walls were lined with bookcases filled with legal treatises. The judge shut the door behind Nate. Nate thought about Clarence and said, “I like the layout of your entry hall. It’s convenient to have your office to the right of the front door.”