The Closing: A Whippoorwill Hollow novel (The Whippoorwill Hollow novels) (22 page)

“I didn’t tell him.”

“Did you tell anyone?”

“The only one I told was Darby Jones.”

“When did you tell him?”

“I didn’t tell Darby nothin the first time he came here, but Daddy told him about the beatin Kenny gave me that night before he killed the girl. Darby came back another time. He said it was a crime for Kenny to beat me. He was real nice to me that night. He brought me flowers—daisies. We sat on the back porch and talked for a couple hours. He had a jug a hooch and we drank most of it. He was sweet to me, the way Kenny used to be.”

“And you told him about the confession?”

“Darby promised to keep it a secret. He said he’d make sure I wouldn’t have to go to court and tell what I know. He said he would fix it so Kenny never got outta jail.”

“Did Jones tell you about stealing a scarf and putting blood on it?”

“No, but I heard about it from the gossips. People say Darby made up stories about Kenny so the court would send him to the electric chair. If it’s true, Darby did it as a good deed for me and Harmon and Daddy.”

“Did Jones tell you about anyone who helped him put Kenny in jail?”

“No.”

“Did he say anything to you about the murder of Henry Crawford?”

“He said it was a terrible crime to kill a poor old drunk like that.”

“Did he know who killed Crawford?”

“No, but he said he’d find out who did it and he’d make sure Henry’s killer paid for it with his life.”

Nate looked across the yard at Harmon, still squatting in the weeds under the tractor, tracing his finger in dust on a tractor wheel, and Nate thought about Deatherage. The Deatherage case had turned into Nate’s worst legal nightmare. Ethical canons required Nate to do his best to free Deatherage, but he wasn’t sure he could force himself to do it now that he knew Deatherage was guilty.

Claire put her hand on Nate’s arm. He looked down at it. It was a small hand, like Darlene Updike’s hand. Like Christine’s hand.

“Please, mister. Don’t let em take me down to the courthouse. Kenny’ll kill me for sure. Please help me, mister.”

A week later on the first Monday in August, the clerk of the Buck County Circuit Court called Nate and told him that the Virginia General Assembly had elected George Maupin as Judge Herring’s replacement. She said Judge Maupin had recused himself from the Deatherage case and the circuit’s acting chief judge had assigned the case to Judge Wigfield, the presiding judge of the Starkey County Circuit Court.

Nate knew the selection of judges was based in large part on who you know, rather than what you know. A candidate had to be endorsed by the legislative delegates who represented the residents of the circuit. Once the delegates advanced a candidate, he was interviewed by the Courts of Justice Committee, but the interview was usually a mere formality. If the local delegates supported a candidate, the committee almost always certified him. He then had to be elected by a majority vote in both houses of the General Assembly—the House of Delegates and the Senate of Virginia—but the election was normally a foregone conclusion. Most legislators didn’t know the candidates outside their circuit, so they voted for any candidate endorsed by the local delegates and certified by the committee. Election to a circuit judgeship depended upon one thing: cultivating a good relationship with the circuit’s local legislative representatives.

Nate thought about George Maupin all day. In the middle of the night Nate lay awake in bed in his apartment, still thinking about George. It was hot. He rose and opened the window. Across Lee Street in Beauregard Park someone hacked and coughed. A garbage can clattered on the pavement. Nate leaned on the window sill and stared at the night.

He thought about a conversation he had with George when they were in law school. At the end of their first semester they studied together for final exams. One afternoon they took a break and went to a coffee shop. They sat across from each other in a booth. It was early in December. Nate watched snow falling outside a window by their table. He took a sip from his cup. The coffee was hot and smelled good.

“What made you decide to go to law school?” George had asked.

Nate shrugged. “I don’t know. I was an English major. I’m pretty good with words.” He paused. “The truth is I couldn’t think of anything else to do.” They were quiet for a while. Then Nate said, “What about you, George?”

George stared out the window and didn’t answer for a long time. Then he said, “My family got pushed around a lot when I was growing up.” He looked at Nate. “Respect was the main reason, I guess. People respect lawyers.” Nate saw something in George’s eyes. Then George took a sip of coffee and looked away and their conversation moved on.

George’s background was a subject of gossip among the students. One of them told Nate George’s father had been “a laid-off coal miner, a deadbeat, and a drunkard” who drank himself to death and left George’s family to fend for itself. In a culture where pedigree often counted for more than talent, George started every race from way behind everyone else. He came to law school with no money and no influence and with his father’s shortcomings as the first thought that came to everyone’s mind when he entered a room, but he persevered and overcame tremendous economic and social handicaps. What Nate thought he saw in George’s eyes that day in the coffee shop was steely determination, and he’d admired him for it. Recalling the intensity of that look now, Nate wondered if he had misread it. He wondered if what he saw that day was ambition, unbridled and unrestrained, born out of poverty and desperation.

Nate stared into the darkness of Beauregard Park and thought about George’s election to the bench. George had been nominated for the circuit judgeship by his local representatives, interviewed by members of the selection committee, recommended by them, and then elected by both houses of the legislature. The process took time. It had to have started more than a month ago, almost immediately after Judge Herring’s death. And George would not have been considered by his legislators for the judgeship in the first place unless he had invested significant time and energy months beforehand positioning himself with them as an acceptable replacement.

Nate went back to his bed, sat on the edge of it, and held his head in his hands. He craved a drink. A pint of Old Crow he’d bought during his relapse stood at the back of the cupboard over the sink. He hadn’t mustered the resolve to throw it away. He was afraid to touch it. Once he had his hands on it, he wasn’t sure he could resist it. He had stayed away from it so far, but its presence had haunted him.

Nate went to the cupboard and opened it. The bottle of Old Crow stood there guarding his addiction to alcohol, liquid amber winking at him in the moonlight. He grabbed the bottle and unscrewed its cap. The liquor’s vapor filled his nostrils. Its tendrils slithered into his lungs and splintered his brain. He pressed the bottle’s mouth to his mouth. The trace of bourbon on the bottle’s lip stung his lips.

Nate’s hands shook. He set the bottle on the counter, leaned over the sink, and gagged. He moistened a dishrag with tap water and cooled his face. He stood there for a long time. Then he poured the bourbon down the drain. Nate stared at the drain’s black hole. Some of the whiskey was still in the trap of the sink. He could smell it. He could disconnect the trap and suck the whiskey from its elbow. He wanted to do it, and there was a time in his life when he would have done it, but he pushed away from the sink. He dressed, walked from his apartment to his car, and drove to his office. He sat at his desk and opened a case file.

That morning, before the first court session began, Nate went to Judge Blackwell’s chambers. When he entered, the judge was sitting in a chair beside his bookshelves, poring over a legal treatise. He removed his reading glasses and smiled at Nate. “Congratulations. Your work on the Deatherage case is the talk of the state. I’m proud of you.”

Nate didn’t respond.

The judge’s smile fell. “Is something wrong, Nathan?”

“I think so.”

“Have a seat.” The judge closed the book and pointed to a chair.

Nate sat down. “I’m worried, Harry, about what happened in Buck County.”

“I understand your concern. Edbert Herring’s demise is a tragedy. Your role in his death must weigh on you, but it wasn’t your fault. Edbert caused his own destruction. You did your job. You defended your client from a corrupt system.”

“I’m concerned about the circumstances leading to my appointment to represent Deatherage. I don’t understand why the court selected me.”

“The court selects attorneys from a list of volunteers. You know that full well.”

“I placed my name on the list one week before I was appointed to the case. The list was long. Some of the attorneys volunteered a year earlier than I did. Why did I jump to the top of the list?”

Judge Blackwell appeared uncomfortable.

Nate said, “You told me the chief justice called you about me.”

“Yes.”

“What did he ask you?”

“He heard the rumors about your resignation. He wanted to know the details.”

“What did you say?”

The judge sighed. “I lied. I told him you resigned voluntarily, took a year’s sabbatical, and decided to do criminal defense. I told him the rumors about you were libelous falsehoods circulated by your political enemies. I told him you would be an excellent choice for the Deatherage case.”

“Why did you recommend me for the Deatherage case? You didn’t know anything about the case. It wasn’t in your circuit.”

The judge shifted in his chair. “I’m not sure what I . . . I don’t know—”

“The chief justice didn’t call you, did he?”

“Well, I talked to him by phone. I don’t know what you’re driving—”

“You called him.”

“What difference does it make?”

“Why did you call him about the Deatherage case? You had no connection to it.”

The judge didn’t answer.

“George Maupin asked you to make the call, didn’t he?”

“Why is this important, Nathan?”

“It’s very important to me and to the Deatherage case. Did George ask you to call the chief justice to persuade him to appoint me to the case?”

“Well, I suppose there’s no harm in telling you, since your representation of Deatherage worked out so well. You’re correct. Mister Maupin asked me to recommend you to represent Deatherage.”

“The bastard.”

The judge blanched. “Is something wrong, Nathan?”

“Did George ask you not to tell me about his conversation with you?”

“Yes. He thought you might resent it. He said he wanted to help you recover from your problems. He thought the case would present you with a professional challenge and an opportunity to earn a reputation as a defense lawyer, but he thought you would regard his efforts on your behalf as an unwelcomed act of charity or a meddlesome interference with your recovery. You’ve been quite proud during this rough patch, Nathan.”

“George advanced my name specifically for the Deatherage case and not for any of the other death penalty appeals involving Buck County defendants?”

“Yes. He said your experience was a particularly good fit for the Deatherage case. Judging by your performance, I’d say he was correct.”

Nate shook his head. “George knows me well.”

“What?”

“He knew I would uncover Judge Herring’s bias and expose it. He knows you well, too. He knew you would want to help me, and he knew you would honor his request to keep his conversation with you confidential.”

“I don’t understand, Nathan. Have I done something wrong?”

“George has done something wrong. Or he’s done many things right, depending on your perspective.”

“I don’t understand.”

“It’s a long story.” Nate looked out the window, thinking. “The night Judge Herring died you issued a warrant authorizing the recording of a conversation between me and Deputy Jones.”

“Mister Maupin called me at home in the middle of the night. He woke me from a sound sleep. I authorized the taping over the telephone.”

“What time did he call you?”

The judge went to his desk and looked in a file. “I authorized the taping at four forty-five that morning. I always make a note of the exact time I grant a warrant in case someone later challenges the state’s action.”

“George left Judge Herring’s house about two thirty. Two hours passed before he called you.”

“If you say so. Is there a problem with the warrant?”

“No.”

“What’s going on, Nathan? You seem quite troubled.”

“I’ll fill you in later. Thanks for your help, Harry.” Nate exited the judge’s chambers and stood in the hallway, thinking about George’s actions. Nate knew almost everything George had done now, but there was still one piece of the puzzle missing. Nate thought he knew where to find it.

George Maupin’s farm was a few miles east of Bloxton. Nate arrived there late in the morning. It was a beautiful summer day. The oppressive hot spell of the previous weeks had broken. The sky was clear and a cool breeze blew across the pastureland bordering the highway. Nate turned off the state road onto a long paved driveway lined on both sides by a white plank fence and evenly spaced sycamore trees. At the end of the driveway was a farmhouse and a shed and, behind them, a barn and a silo. Angus and Hereford cattle grazed in the field behind the barn.

Nate rolled to a stop in front of the house as Gracie Maupin came out on the porch. She was a stout woman with stringy gray hair styled in a bowl cut. She wore a loose-fitting gingham dress, and she was barefooted. She wiped her hands on a dish towel and stared at Nate’s car. When he got out of the car, she scowled and said, “You’re not welcome here.”

“Is George at home?”

“Get off my property.”

“I need a minute of your time, Gracie.”

“Your brash ways killed Edbert Herring. You destroyed his good name and Betsy’s cherished memories of him. Get off my property or I’ll call the law.”

“I’m sorry you feel that way. Does George own a red pickup truck?”

“I’ll give you five seconds to get in your car and drive off.”

Nate stood his ground.

Gracie said, “I’ll fetch the sheriff to arrest you for trespass.” She marched inside the house.

The shed to the right of the house was a long low building constructed with wooden planks supported by creosoted posts. It was open along most of its front side and Nate could see bales of hay stacked against the back wall and a tractor in the shadows. A hay baler and a hay rake were parked beside it. There was no truck.

A door with a metal handle at its base fronted a closed-off part of the shed. Nate walked over to it and lifted the door. Hay dust, grit, and dander floated in the sunlight that fell across the tailgate of a red pickup truck. The smell of gasoline hung in the air. A mouse kicked up a trail of dust and disappeared under a bale of straw. Nate stood just outside the shed and stared for a long time at the letters framed in a rectangle on the tailgate. “Chevrolet.”

He walked around to the driver’s door and looked at it. He ran his hand over a big deep dent below the window. The truck fit Odoms’ description of the pickup parked at the warehouse the night someone attacked Nate. It was the last puzzle piece.

Nate walked back to his car and stood beside it. He looked at the shed and the truck and thought about his next step. Prudence said he should fear for his safety. No one knew what George had done except Nate, and George had been ruthless in covering up his crimes. Yet, Nate wasn’t afraid of him. He couldn’t shake the notion that there had to be some shred of decency left in him and that their friendship still counted for something, but even if he was wrong about that, he didn’t care about his personal safety. He had nothing more to lose. If George came after him, so be it. A man with nothing to lose had nothing to fear.

Nate thought the most logical next step was to confront George with what he had discovered and try to convince him to give himself up. The smart play would be to wear a wire. Clarence Shifflett was the only man Nate could ask for help in setting up a taped meeting with George.

Nate looked back at George’s long driveway. A solitary crow flew across the pasture and alit on a top branch of the nearest sycamore tree. The crow’s feathers ruffled in the wind and the tree limb swayed.

Given Clarence’s state of mind, it would be cruel to drag him back into the fray. Besides, arranging to wear a wire would take time, and time was against Nate. As things stood, he had the advantage of surprise, but it wouldn’t last long. George would soon learn Nate was at his farm asking about a red pickup truck.

The crow in the sycamore cawed raucously, spread its wings, and flew across the pasture. Nate watched it shrink to a black speck on the horizon and disappear. He looked at the red pickup in the shed one last time, then got in his car and sped down the driveway.

Nate parked his car on the curb near Captain Bloxton’s statue and walked to the courthouse. The court was in recess during the noon luncheon break and the courtroom was empty. Nate found a warren of offices behind it, walked past a startled secretary, and opened the door to Judge Maupin’s chambers. George sat behind a desk with a phone to his ear.

He looked up and smiled. “Forget it, Hubert. He’s here in my chambers.” There was a pause. “No. I don’t need your help.” He hung up the phone.

The secretary stood beside Nate, glaring at him. “I’m sorry, Your Honor. This man barged into chambers before I could stop him.”

“That’s all right. He’s a good friend. Leave us alone, please.”

The secretary pulled the door closed behind her.

“Gracie called the sheriff. Betsy Herring and Gracie are close friends. I know it’s unfair, but Gracie blames you for what happened to Eddy. The truth is a lot of people in Buck County still respect him, and they blame you for his death. No amount of reasoning seems to persuade them otherwise. Have a seat.”

Nate sat in a chair across the desk from George.

George said, “What were you doing at the farm?”

“Looking at evidence.”

“Evidence of what?”

“I know everything, George. You used me. You manipulated the process so I’d be appointed to the Deatherage case.”

George winced. “Old Harry Blackwell told you I advanced your name for the case, didn’t he? Damn it to hell. I wanted to keep it hidden from you.” George smiled. “You’re so damned proud. Look, maybe I shouldn’t have meddled in your affairs, but I couldn’t stand by and do nothing. You were down and out. You needed work. I asked Harry to recommend you for the case. I was trying to help you.”

“You didn’t do it to help me. You did it to advance your own ambition. You knew I was desperate to regain my reputation, desperate enough to run the risk of taking aim at the king, something you were afraid to do on your own.”

George leaned back in his chair, looked down at the floor, and pursed his lips. A long time passed. “For the sake of argument, let’s say I suspected something was wrong in the Deatherage case. Let’s say I was reluctant to accuse the judge of wrongdoing and I hoped you would find the truth. What’s the harm? You removed a corrupt judge from the bench. You reformed your public image. Everyone is a winner.”

“You didn’t mention the biggest winner. You. You got the black robe.”

“All right. Let’s throw that into the mix, too. I still say what’s the harm.”

“There was a great deal of harm. Men were murdered.”

George nodded. “I see your point. I feel bad about Eddy Herring. It’s a shame Clarence shot him. I didn’t see that coming and I wouldn’t have wished it on Eddy, but let’s not forget that he broke the law. He corrupted the justice system in this county. He paid the ultimate price for his crimes, but they were his crimes, not mine or yours.”

“What about Henry Crawford? He did nothing wrong. How do you justify his murder?”

“Justify it? I can’t justify it. The man was an innocent victim of an evil criminal.”

“There’s no point in maintaining your act. I’m on to you. You murdered Crawford.”

George was motionless but his face turned crimson. “For the sake of our friendship, I’ll try to forget you said that.”

“You knocked me out, beat Crawford to death, and tossed his body in the quarry like a piece of garbage.”

Beads of sweat dotted George’s bald head. He glared at Nate. “You’ve been through a lot. I’ll take that into account, but I’ll give you fair warning. Before you make accusations against me, you might consider the vulnerability of your situation.”

Nate was in no mood to heed warnings. “When you thrust me into the Deatherage case, you knew I’d expose the judge’s wrongdoing. You knew simple background checks of Darlene, her father Daniel, Swiller, and the judge would expose the judge’s bias. But you thought I’d stop there. You didn’t expect me to discover your crimes—witness tampering, suppression of evidence, obstruction of justice, subornation of perjury. You counted on Jones to intimidate Odoms so he wouldn’t reveal Crawford’s presence in the warehouse the night of the murder and you thought Jones would have the good sense to keep Crawford away from me, but as Hubert said, Jones wasn’t the smartest soldier in the army. He let you down and I found Crawford, and you were there behind me that night. You attacked me and knocked me unconscious.”

Nate paused, hoping George would open up, but George said, “You’re talking nonsense, Nate, foolish vile accusations with no basis in fact.”

Nate continued, “I can understand how you justified your crimes initially. You saw what the judge did to Creighton Long with Swiller. That made it more acceptable to you to violate the law to reach results you thought were just. You cultivated Jones to help you convict men you thought were guilty, and your conviction rate skyrocketed. You told yourself you were performing a public service. I can understand all of that, but I can’t understand what you did to cover up your crimes. George, you committed cold-blooded murder, for God’s sake.”

George held up his hands, his palms facing Nate. “Stop this nonsense or I won’t ever forgive you, no matter how good a friend you are.”

“I can’t stop it. Maybe we could have worked something out if all you’d done was rig prosecutions, but when you killed Crawford you made it impossible to save you.”

“This is ridiculous. I had nothing to do with Crawford’s murder. I had no reason to kill him.”

“You killed him to conceal your crimes. You told Jones to make sure Crawford kept quiet about being in the warehouse the night of the murder and you told him to keep the mattresses out of the case so no one would test them for Updike’s and Crawford’s blood, hair, and clothing fibers. You knew I would have to spend the night in the Black Gold Motel in order to attend the meeting with you the next morning. You were anxious about what I might look into, so you came to the motel to watch me and you followed me into the warehouse. When I found Crawford, you were afraid I’d learn that you and Jones suppressed evidence. You panicked, and you attacked me to keep me from talking to Crawford.”

“Jesus, Nate. You know me better than that.”

“You’re not the man I thought you were. The man I knew couldn’t have killed anyone, but you killed Crawford. You killed him to conceal your crimes. Crawford saw you assault me. He was an unreliable drunk and you couldn’t take the risk he would tell someone about the assault. You knew that revelation would lead to the unveiling of all your crimes.”

George looked down at the floor and didn’t say anything.

“You murdered Jones, too,” Nate said.

George flinched. “Don’t say these terrible things. It hurts too much to have a good friend turn on me like this.”

“Don’t play games with me. You’re the Judas in this story. You warned the sheriff to stay away from Jones until you could get a warrant from Judge Blackwell. You left Judge Herring’s house at two thirty. It takes ten minutes to drive to your farm and another ten minutes to find Judge Blackwell’s phone number and call him. You should have called the judge no later than three, but you didn’t call him until four-thirty.”

George brushed his lip with a trembling hand. Nate waited, hoping he might open up, but he didn’t say anything.

“Jones trusted you,” Nate said. “You were his mentor, his commanding officer in civilian life. You told him he was serving the greater good by falsifying evidence against guilty men, and he followed your orders like the exemplary soldier he had been in Vietnam. He opened his door to you that night with no idea what you intended to do. My guess is he trusted you until the moment you put the barrel of his shotgun to the base of his chin. You made his murder look like suicide, and you hurried home and called Judge Blackwell to get the warrant.”

George swiped his hand over his bald head and down his face. He heaved his heavy frame out of his chair, went to his liquor cabinet, poured himself a shot of whiskey, and drank it. He drank a second shot. He poured a glass of straight whiskey and carried it back to his desk and sat down.

Nate said, “Whiskey won’t help. I know. I tried it.”

George turned the glass up, gulped down half of the whiskey, set the glass down on his desk, and let out a long breath. “All I did was prosecute and convict guilty men.”

“Crawford was guilty of nothing and Jones’ only crimes were the ones you persuaded him to commit. You murdered them.”

George drained the rest of the whiskey and returned the glass to his desk. He stared at the empty glass for a few moments. Then he straightened his tie, smoothed down the hair rimming his bald pate, and looked Nate straight in the eye. “The gist of your wild accusations seems to be that I was Jones’ conspirator. I was not. Judge Herring directed him to commit crimes. Your accusations have no evidentiary basis. You have no proof I did anything improper.”

Nate was disappointed. He had hoped some part of the good friend he had known still lived inside George. He had hoped those remnants of goodness would be caught off guard by Nate’s discoveries and George would falter, but after exhibiting some initial vulnerability in the face of Nate’s aggressive attack, he seemed to be recovering. It made sense he would be tough to break. George’s ascension from the depths of poverty to the catbird seat in Buck County was due in part to his refusal to give an inch, no matter how daunting the challenge he faced.

Nate still held out hope he could break loose an admission from George’s rock-hard determination if he could intimidate him with the threat of prosecution and exposure of his crimes. He knew he didn’t have evidence to support an indictment against George, but he hoped a good bluff might cause him to make a mistake. “I can prove you conspired with Jones,” Nate said.

George tensed. “How would you propose to prove such a slanderous lie?”

“You’ve decided you’ll call Claire Deatherage to the witness stand in the second trial because Jones told you Deatherage confessed to his wife, but you didn’t use her as a witness in the first trial because Jones promised her she wouldn’t be required to testify. He couldn’t have made that promise unless you agreed to it. You agreed to keep her off the stand on the condition that Jones lie about finding the scarf on Deatherage.”