Turning Angel (41 page)

He nods again.

”He told me it was up to me to finish the job. To catch the guys he was trying to get. Do you understand?“

”Yes, sir.“

”I know the sheriff has probably asked you what I’m about to ask. But I’m not the sheriff, you know what I mean?“

”I think I do.“

”I figure your dad must have had a special place where he kept his work stuff.“

The barest hint of a smile lights the boy’s eyes. ”They been searching our place for two whole days.“

”But they didn’t find anything?“

”Nope.“

I start to speak again, but a deep voice overwhelms my own. It’s the red-faced man from the funeral. ”You boys get back to your mama,“ he orders.

Sonny and his brother instantly scamper toward their mother. This man is obviously accustomed to being obeyed. He walks toward me with a slow gait, his blue eyes focused on mine. I hold out my hand as he reaches me, and he shakes it carefully, like a man who knows he could hurt someone by simply closing his hand.

”Hello, Mr. Cage,“ he says.

”Are you Sonny’s father?“

”That’s right. Your daddy was my doctor back when I worked for Triton Battery.“

I’m thankful for this. I’ve yet to meet a former patient who doesn’t have fond memories of my father. ”I can’t tell you how sorry I am about what happened to Sonny.“

Mr. Cross takes a slow breath, then lets out a deep sigh. ”You were with him when he died, they said. That right?“

”Yes, sir. I was.“

”Did it really happen the way you told the sheriff?“

”Yes.“

”Sonny done his duty?“

”Mr. Cross, I never saw anything like it.“

The big man grimaces, then nods twice as though settling something in his own mind. He’s shown no more emotion than a man making sure his son finished cutting someone’s grass as promised, but I sense that inside he is boiling with emotions that will never be outwardly expressed.

”I saw you talking to Sonny, Junior,“ he says.

”He was saying that his father didn’t like the sheriff much.“

Mr. Cross pokes at the dirt with his booted foot. ”Billy Byrd’s a showboat. He cares more about newspaper headlines than he does about enforcing the law. That’s one way to be, I reckon. It’s not my way. Sonny’s neither.“

”I think you’re right.“

”Sonny told me you was working with him.“

”That’s right.“

”He said you put a lot of bad outlaws away in Texas.“

”I did my best.“

”And now you write books?“

”Yes, sir.“

The big man sniffs but asks no more questions.

”Mr. Cross, as Sonny lay dying in his driveway, he asked me to finish the job for him. I mean to do that, if I can.“

”Go on.“

”I think Sonny kept a lot hidden from Sheriff Byrd. I think he did that because he knew the sheriff was likely to damage his investigations. But if I’m going to do what Sonny asked me to do, I need whatever evidence he had. Now, I know there were some surveillance videotapes, and I imagine he had notebooks, still photographs, and maybe even a computer. I’m also sure that Sheriff Byrd has been pressing you about this. I just want you to know the sheriff is no friend of mine. In fact, to be frank, I consider him an enemy.“

Mr. Cross stares at me in silence for some time. Then he says, ”You know where I live?“

”No, sir.“

”Way out Kingston Road. Almost where you turn to cut through to Liberty Road. I got thirty acres out there.“

I wait for him to continue.

”We’re having some family out there. Some food, some whiskey, you know the drill. You ought to ride out there.“

”Now?“

”It’s up to you. But Sonny spent quite a bit of time out there of an evening. I’d take the boys fishing or riding the four-wheeler, and he’d work. Might be worth your time to ride out.“

My heart thumps in my chest. ”I’ll do that.“

”Just past Second Creek Baptist Church. Mailbox has a wrought-iron bronco on it. You can’t miss it.“

”I’ll be there.“

The bucking bronco mailbox marks a dirt driveway that leads back into the thick woods that border Kingston Road. On the way in, I pass two ponds and a baseball backstop. Then I see several pickup trucks parked before a simple frame house. I hate to interrupt a family gathering after a funeral, but Mr. Cross did invite me to come. Thankfully, as I park my Saab behind a massive Dodge truck, the big man opens a screen door and lumbers out to meet me.

”Have any trouble finding it?“

”No, it was just like you said.“

Mr. Cross changes direction and walks toward a green Ford pickup. ”Let’s take a little ride. My knees are too bad to do much walking these days.“

I walk around his pickup and climb into the passenger seat.

Mr. Cross drives onto the lawn and circles behind his house. The backyard looks about as I expected. There’s a Kubota tractor under a tin shed with some fig trees growing beside it, a glitter-painted bass boat on a trailer half covered by a blue tarp, and plastic hummingbird feeders hanging from almost every tree. Mr. Cross steers the truck into a couple of ruts and begins climbing a grassy hill. He obviously doesn’t feel talkative, so I say nothing. As we crest the hill, I spy a stand of trees beside yet another pond. Descending toward it, I make out a small camper trailer parked under the trees.

”Sonny liked it out here,“ Mr. Cross says. ”I bought this place after Triton downsized me in ’eighty-six. Cost me my severance pay and all my stock options, but it was worth it.“ He pulls the truck up beside the trailer but leaves the engine running. ”This is where Sonny did most of his work.“

”Is there electricity down here?“

”Yes, indeed. Put it in myself. There’s a satellite dish on the south side of the trailer. Sonny had to have that damn Internet out here. You’d know more about that than I would.“

The trailer looks like it should be sold for scrap, but maybe it’s nicer on the inside.

”I need to get back to the folks,“ says Mr. Cross. ”You take as long as you need.“

”Is it locked?“

”Never has been. No need out here. Protected by Smith and Wesson.“

Of course. ”What if I find something I need?“

”Take it. Take anything you want. This was Sonny’s business, and now it’s yours. I reckon I ought to give this stuff to the sheriff, but I just don’t believe he’d do the right thing with it. You’re welcome to come and go as you please. Just honk your horn as you pass the house driving down here.“ Mr. Cross offers me his hand. ”Good luck to you, Mr. Cage. And keep your eyes open for those bastards who shot Sonny.“

”I will.“ I shake the giant hand, then climb out of the truck.

Mr. Cross immediately drives away, leaving me in the shadow of the trailer. It’s an ugly thing, the kind of rig you tow behind a pickup truck. It was probably built to sleep two people, but there’s only one way to know.

The trailer’s door has almost no weight. I pull it open and step up into the unit.

I expected a bad smell, but a little mildew is the only odor that greets me. The interior of the trailer is a remarkable sight. The camper’s beds have been converted into worktables. A metal filing cabinet stands against one wall, and a computer glows on a Formica countertop that apparently served as Sonny’s desk. The yellow kitchen cabinets have had their doors removed and now function as bookshelves. Most of the books are criminal justice texts, but there are a couple of loose-leaf binders on the right side of the bottom shelf. Two cameras rest on the top shelf: a digital still camera with a telephoto lens, and a small Sony video camera. When I check the drawers in the kitchenette, I catch my breath. Rows of MiniDV tapes line the drawer bottoms, and they seem to be organized by date.

Surveillance tapes.

I can hardly contain myself. Probably the best thing to do is pack the tapes, the computer, and the binders into my car and take them home to study. If I stay here, I risk Mr. Cross changing his mind, or some other family member challenging my presence. I’ve seen enough families fight over property after a death to spend more time here than necessary.

Two steps out of the trailer, my cell phone rings. It’s Caitlin.

I almost don’t answer. I don’t want to lie about being here, but Caitlin wouldn’t be calling if it wasn’t important.

”Hey,“ I answer.

”Steel yourself, Penn.“

My first thought is Annie, then my father’s weak coronary vessels. ”Tell me.“

”The grand jury just indicted Drew for capital murder.“

There’s a roaring in my ears that sounds like breaking surf. It’s only blood, of course, pumping under the enormous pressure generated by my clenching heart. Why the intense reaction? I knew this was coming. And I’ve heard much more devastating news in my life: verdicts rendered in death penalty cases, my father telling me that my wife died during the night. Yet somehow I sense that this indictment will set in motion unprecedented pain and suffering. Why, I don’t know. Maybe because Shad is trying Drew for the wrong reasons. Or maybe—

”Penn? Are you there?“

”Yes.“

”You sound out of breath. What are you doing?“

”That took me by surprise. I didn’t think it would happen this soon.“

”Me, either. Where are you?“

I close my eyes. Caitlin cannot know about the trailer or Sonny’s private stash of evidence. ”Talking to the Cross family. I’m going home soon, though.“

She says nothing. She senses something wrong, but she hasn’t enough facts to work out what it is. ”Penn—“

”Don’t worry, babe. We’ll talk later, when we have some time. I need to finish with these people now.“

”Okay, but call me back.“

”I will.“ I pocket my phone and start jogging up the hill toward my car. I need to pack Sonny’s things and stash them in my floor safe as soon as possible.

Then I need to talk to Quentin Avery.

Chapter
30

For the first time since I met Quentin Avery, his face is taut with anxiety. The lawyer is sitting across from me in the main room of his penthouse suite at the Eola, his artificial foot resting on the floor, the bare stump of his lower leg crossed over his left knee.

”This is fast,“ Quentin ruminates, ”really fast. You say Shad hand-carried the indictment over to the circuit clerk?“

”That’s what Caitlin told me.“ I spoke to Caitlin by phone again on my way from my house to the Eola, and she filled me in on the most recent developments of the case. ”There are two circuit judges in this town. The system ensures randomness by simple rotation, assigning each judge every other case that’s filed. The problem is, every lawyer in town knows that. If a lawyer wants a particular judge for a case, he carries three cases to the clerk’s office. The first case he files is a stalking horse. If that case is assigned to the judge he doesn’t want, the lawyer immediately files the case he wants to steer, and it goes to the judge he does want. But if the stalking horse goes to the judge that the lawyer
does
want, he has to file all three cases to steer the one he cares about to the right judge.“

”The true bills returned by a grand jury are normally filed as a group,“ Quentin says. ”But that’s more a matter of convenience than anything.“

”If Shad carried Drew’s indictment over personally, he carried two other cases with him. You can bet your good foot that he’s already steered Drew’s case to Judge Arthel Minor.“

”Then you can bet your ass that Arthel will schedule Drew’s case in the docket for the current term. The only question is how soon will it be.“

”Four weeks or less,“ I reckon. ”And now that Mayor Jones has stepped down, I look for it sooner rather than later.“

”Any sooner than two weeks,“ says Quentin, ”and even the man in the street will know Drew’s trial has nothing to do with justice.“

”I’m not sure Shad’s worried about that. You said it yourself, his concern is the special election. That means making good on his promise to make the system equal, i.e., to nail a rich white man. That’s what will get Shad a unified black vote. I expect Judge Minor to move as fast as legally possible.“

Quentin nods slowly. ”Why is the white sheriff lined up with Shad and Judge Minor? Did Shad promise him the black vote in the next election?“

”I don’t think Shad can guarantee that. I’m not sure what Billy Byrd hopes to get out of this, but it’s something. You can bank on that.“

”We should try to find out. It might give us an advantage.“

”I will.“

”When will we know about the trial date?“

”Caitlin has reporters at the circuit clerk’s office and Judge Minor’s chambers. If Arthel sets a trial date today, we’ll know about it.“

A trace of a smile touches Quentin’s lips. ”Kind of handy having the publisher of the newspaper on your side, isn’t it?“

”It’s a two-edged sword.“

He nods thoughtfully. ”What the hell is Shad thinking? I know he has a hard-on to indict Dr. Elliott, but it’s not enough for him to want it bad. Something happened today that persuaded the grand jury to indict.“

”The DNA must be back,“ I conclude. ”That’s the only explanation.“

Quentin’s eyes narrow, and then he nods slowly. ”If you pay a hefty rush fee, a private lab with a good sample can do the analysis in seventy-two hours.“

”You’re right.“

”Would Shad pay for that?“

”Hell, yes. And the timing just works.“

”That’s it, then,“ says Quentin. ”One of the samples matched Dr. Elliott, and that convinced the grand jury to indict.“

”I think there’s more. If Shad paid a private lab for a rush job, he would have had both samples analyzed, the vaginal and the rectal.“ I close my eyes and try not to focus on any particular line of reasoning. ”That means he’s got the data on our mystery man as well. The vaginal sample.“

”What could Shad learn from that?“ Quentin asks. ”They couldn’t ID that sperm without someone to compare it to. Do you think it matched the Sayers boy? Or the fishermen maybe?“

A small epiphany sends a tingle along my forearms. I open my eyes. ”No. What Shad could learn from that second semen sample is that our mystery man
wasn’t black.
Ergo, that semen was
not
deposited by Cyrus White.“