Blood Money (Joe Dillard Series No. 6) Page 22

  She finally managed to get Jasper’s body into the house and laid it on his bed. Biscuit almost tore the back door off the hinges when Charlie climbed the steps, but the dog quickly became silent when the door opened and he inspected Jasper. Charlie found a soft, white, silk sheet that had belonged to her grandmother and wrapped it around him. She went into her bedroom and changed clothes, went outside and backed Jasper’s truck up to the porch. She spread a blanket on the floor, rolled Jasper onto it carefully, pulled him outside, and put him in the bed of the truck.

  Riley Potts was an old friend of Jasper’s who lived on Spivey Mountain in Unicoi County. He, too, was a taxidermist and a hunter. Charlie had been to his house a few times when she was younger, and Riley had come by to drink coffee and talk with Jasper several times.

  Riley’s place wasn’t much more than a plywood shack. It sat back in a cove about halfway up the mountain. Charlie blew the horn when she got close to the house. Five matted mutts came tearing around the corner, all of them barking. Riley walked out the front door. He was wearing denim bib overalls over a white t-shirt. He waved when he saw Jasper’s truck and quieted the dogs.

  Charlie pulled up close to the house.

  “Well, I’ll be dogged. Charlie, I hain’t seen you in a coon’s age.”

  “I need your help, Riley.”

  “What’s wrong? Whar’s that uncle o’ yourn?”

  “He’s in the back.”

  Charlie got out and pulled back the blankets she’d wrapped around Jasper. She lifted the silk sheet from his face.

  “I need you to take care of him for me,” she said, choking back tears. “He said he didn’t want to go into the ground.”

  Chapter 53

  I watched through the window as Charlie climbed out of her truck and walked toward the entrance of Buddy’s Diner in Elizabethton. Neither Jack nor I had heard from her in days. We’d called her, texted her. We’d gone to her house and found it empty. No Charlie, no Jasper, no horse or dog. I called the Carter County Sheriff’s Department and reported her missing, but as soon as the word got out that they were looking for her, an investigator at the department called me and said Charlie had contacted him by phone. She told him that after everything that had happened, she just needed to get out of town. She was fine, she said. She had called me late the night before and asked if I would meet her, without Jack, at the diner early the next morning.

  The familiar smell of bacon frying and coffee brewing filled the diner. Quiet voices chatted about sports and disasters and politics. I was sitting in a booth, and she walked in and sat down across from me without saying anything. She looked exhausted. Dark circles had formed beneath her eyes and her face was pale and puffy. A waitress appeared immediately and she ordered a cup of coffee.

  “Not hungry?” I asked.

  “I’m having trouble eating,” she said.

  “We’ve been worried about you, Charlie. What’s going on?”

  “I’m not going to cry,” she said. “All the way over here, that’s what I’ve been telling myself. I’m not going to cry. I’ve cried so much over the past few days I don’t think I have any tears left in me.”

  “Why? Why have you been crying? What happened?”

  “They killed Jasper. They killed my uncle.”

  I sat there, stunned, while she told me what had happened the day she disappeared from the office. She told me about the young men, Johnny Russo and Carlo, who had come and forced her at gunpoint to the cave, about her communication with Jasper, about the battle that killed him. She said Russo and Carlo were in the cave, along with all of the gold, and that she had had Jasper’s body cremated and spread the ashes among the ashes of his shop, the shop that had been burned down by Russo and Carlo.

  “That’s where he would want to be,” she said. “There with his wife and my grandmother and grandfather.”

  “I don’t understand,” I said.

  “You don’t need to understand. He’s where he would want to be.”

  She said she had taken the five bars of gold that were at her house back to the cave, tossed them inside, and then hired a man to dynamite the entrance.

  “It’s over now,” she said. “Nobody will ever get to it.”

  After the entrance to the cave was sealed, she said she loaded her horse up into a trailer, loaded Biscuit into her truck, and went camping in the mountains of North Carolina.

  “I needed to get away,” she said. “I needed to think.”

  She spoke in the disaffected manner of one who had suffered a great trauma. Her voice was flat and cold, her demeanor dull and lifeless. I wanted to wrap my arms around her and hold her, to tell her that everything would be all right, to reassure her somehow, but I knew it would be pointless. There was only one thing that would heal her, and that was the passage of time.

  “What about the police?” I said. “You aren’t going to tell them what happened? Shouldn’t the bodies in the cave be taken care of?”

  “They got what they deserved,” she said bitterly. “They killed my father and my uncle. They burned down our barn and my uncle’s shop. They killed Zane Barnes. They wanted the gold, and now they have it. They’ll be close to it forever.”

  “Won’t someone come looking for them? Did they say where they were from?”

  “I heard them mention Philadelphia,” she said, “and I don’t care if someone comes. They won’t find them.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m so very, very sorry. What are your plans, Charlie? What are you going to do now? You need some help and support, and I want you to know that I’ll do anything, anything I can to help you.”

  “I’m leaving,” she said. “I can’t stay here. It’s too much. The house, the memories, the guilt, it’s just too much to bear.”

  “Where will you go?”

  “I don’t know. West, maybe. Someplace with big skies. I want you to tell Jack goodbye for me, and I want you to tell him I’m sorry.”

  “You don’t have anything to be sorry for.”

  “Tell him, will you?”

  “I will. Do you need anything? Money?”

  “No, thank you, I’m fine. My uncle said something to me once that I’ve been thinking about a lot lately. He said ‘What’s past is past, but that don’t mean it’s gone. You can’t just wipe the board clean.’ And he was right, you know? I’ll never be able to wipe the board clean, but maybe if I put some distance between myself and this place, these memories, maybe I can blur everything enough to be able to live with myself again.”

  “When are you leaving?”

  “This morning. I’m packed. All I have to do is load Sadie in the trailer and start driving. I guess I won’t be around to help you with Jordan’s trial. I’m sorry.”

  “I’ve tried cases by myself before. Don’t worry about it.”

  “I’ve thought about Jordan a lot, too. About how people make decisions and then have to deal with the consequences. I made some bad decisions, and I’ll have to deal with them for the rest of my life. Jordan made a decision, and maybe it wasn’t a good decision, but he shouldn’t have to spend the rest of his life in jail. How does it look for him? How do you think it will go?”

  “You never know what a jury will do, but we got a huge break two days ago. The feds arrested Howard Raleigh and Raymond Peale on racketeering and conspiracy to commit murder charges. I thought the prosecution might think twice about going ahead with Jordan’s case, but I talked to the district attorney yesterday and he said they’re still going to trial. Typical prosecutorial pig-headedness.”

  “Good luck,” Charlie said. “I know you’ll do a great job.”

  “Will you ever come back?” I said.

  She shook her head. “I don’t know. I don’t know what the future holds for me.”

  “Please tell me you’ll stay in touch. That you’ll let me know where you are and how you’re doing.”

  “I will. I’m not making any promises about how soon it will be, but I will.”

 
“I’ll miss you, Charlie. Jack will miss you.”

  “I’ll miss you, too. You’ve been good to me.”

  She slid out of the booth and stood.

  “Goodbye, Joe,” she said.

  “I’ll talk to you soon,” I said, and I watched her walk out to her truck and drive away.

  Chapter 54

  (October)

  I walked into the district attorney’s office in Blountville at eight-thirty in the morning and was greeted somberly by Griffin Dykes. Dykes was the district attorney general for Sullivan County, which made up the entirety of Tennessee’s Second Judicial District. He was in his late fifties, serving his first term after having spent twenty years slugging it out in courtrooms as an assistant district attorney. His short hair was mostly gray now, his eyes brown and intense. His slim physique reflected his passion for running in marathons. He was wearing a charcoal gray suit and a starched, white shirt. I respected Dykes and had tried more than a dozen cases against him earlier in my career. He was a serious man, meticulous in his preparation, and I’d always found him to be fair-minded and reasonable.

  “Just the two of us?” I said as we shook hands.

  He nodded and motioned to a chair in front of his desk. It was Friday morning. Jordan Scott’s trial was scheduled to begin the following Monday. Dykes had called me the day before and asked me to come over “and have a conversation.” I knew he wanted to make a deal. I sat down across the desk from him.

  “Can I offer you anything?” Dykes said. “Coffee, water?”

  “Got any whiskey?”

  He reached down and opened a drawer, pulled out a bottle of Glenlivet scotch and two glasses.

  “I was kidding, Griffin,” I said.

  “I’m not,” he said.

  He poured two fingers into each glass, slid one of the glasses across the desk to me, and raised his own.

  “What are we drinking to?” I asked.

  “To reason.”

  “To reason,” I said, and I took a small sip. Griffin drained his glass and set it on the desk.

  “This matter we’re about to try,” Griffin said, “has caused me to lose more sleep than any case in my career. I choose to regard my role as district attorney in an idealistic fashion. I was elected to represent the people of this district in the prosecution of criminal cases, and I do my very best to serve them to the best of my ability.”

  “I know you do,” I said.

  “You’ve dealt with difficult cases before, and so have I, but this one… this one troubles me. I find myself in the position of trying to convict a man of murder when I would rather give him a medal.”

  “I vote for the second option.”

  “Please, don’t be cavalier. This is a serious matter, Joe. I’d like for you to help me resolve it in a way that will be… palatable for all concerned.”

  Since the arrests of Howard Raleigh, Sheriff Raymond Peale and Chief Deputy Matthew Bacon, a steady stream of information had been made available to me through various sources, primarily Leon Bates. I had reports and notes of complaints made against Todd Raleigh, documentation of the results of internal investigations, copies of anonymous memos written to the sheriff by people in his department who were concerned about Todd Raleigh and the effect he was having on the department’s reputation and morale, and even recordings of conversations made secretly by Matthew Bacon after he became an FBI informant. Griffin Dykes was unaware of all the information I possessed, and, as a criminal defense attorney, I had no obligation to tell him about it. I would spring it on him during the trial if the circumstances allowed and the judge ruled it admissible. I was sure that Griffin had access to the same information, but he had no way of knowing that I’d been able to get my hands on it.

  “I know how serious it is,” I said, “and I apologize if I was cavalier. But I think I can help you, Griffin.”

  He raised his eyebrows and poured another two fingers of scotch into his glass.

  “Is that so?” he said. “And how might you be able to help?”

  “Let’s just go through the trial together. We’ll make our opening statements. You’ll say Jordan was acting as a vigilante, that he pre-meditated the killing, that he shot Todd Raleigh as Raleigh was trying to run away, and that he deserves to be punished. I’ll counter by arguing that Raleigh was committing a rape and that Jordan stopped it, that he was within his legal rights to use deadly force in defense of the girl who was being raped. And then the real show will begin. You’ll call the first responders, the deputies and the EMTs, to describe the scene and to establish the position of Raleigh’s body to prove that he was moving away from Jordan when he was shot. Then you’ll call the medical examiner to establish the cause of death. Once you get there, you’re going to start running into problems. You can put the gun in evidence through one of the first responders, but in order to prove pre-meditation you’re going to have to prove that it belonged to Jordan’s father and that Jordan took it from him and had been carrying it for more than a week. How are you going to do that? By calling Duane Scott to the witness stand? That isn’t going to go well. And it won’t go well if you call the rape victim to try to solidify the point that Raleigh was running away. She’ll be a tough witness for you because she’s on our side. I’m sure you’ve talked to her. I have. Several times.

  “To further your theme of pre-meditation, you’ll have to call Jordan’s friends, coaches, family. They’re on your witness list, but I know you don’t want to call any of them because they all love him and every single one of them will do whatever they can to hurt your case and help ours. When I cross-examine them, I’ll make sure they let the jury know how they feel about Jordan. Most, if not all of them, will mention that Jordan changed after his girlfriend was raped and committed suicide, and I guarantee you that someone will blurt out the fact that Holly accused Raleigh of the rape, that they went to the sheriff’s department, and that they were stonewalled. Not only were they stonewalled, but Matt Bacon, the chief deputy at the sheriff’s department, blatantly accused Holly of lying so she could file a lawsuit and make herself rich. Once that cat gets out of the bag, you can bet I’m going to press the issue. I plan to call Matt Bacon and I think the judge will let him testify because the jury has a right to hear our theory of motive since we’re going to admit to the shooting. Once Bacon gets on the stand, it’ll hit the fan. I’ll be trying to get in evidence of the conspiracy to murder Jordan the night they let him out of the jail and what pieces of trash Howard Raleigh and Raymond Peale are and you’ll be objecting and hollering that it’s all irrelevant and the judge will be hammering away with his gavel and the jury will be sitting there wondering just what in the hell is going on. I’ll make them so angry at Todd Raleigh and Howard Raleigh and Raymond Peale and Matt Bacon that they’ll be liable to form a lynch mob and find a rope. And then I’ll—”

  “Enough,” Griffin said. “Take another sip of your drink and calm down.”

  “You’re in a difficult position,” I said. “I understand that and I sympathize. I’ve been in a few myself over the years. But, like you, I have a client to represent. You’re representing the people of your district, and I’m representing one man.”

  “Who shot and killed someone in a public park in broad daylight.”

  “Yes, who shot and killed someone in a public park in broad daylight. But there were circumstances, and you know as well as I do what they were. So we can either go in there on Monday, try the case, and see where the chips fall, or we can work something out. I like my chances at trial. You’re feeling uncomfortable about yours or I wouldn’t be sitting her sipping on this fine whiskey. So make me an offer.”

  “Second-degree murder, minimum sentence as a mitigated offender,” Griffin said. “He agrees to a thirteen-year sentence and is eligible for parole in less than three.”

  “That’s probably what this is, legally, because Jordan acted after extreme provocation. And it’s a generous offer, a fair offer, but I can’t agree to it. I just can’t do it
. It’ll follow him for the rest of his life. I’d rather roll the dice at trial.”

  “Don’t you think your client should make that decision?”

  “We’ve discussed it many times. I thought it might come to this, so we’ve talked over all the options. I know what he’ll accept and what he won’t.”

  “What will he accept?”

  “Criminally negligent homicide, time already served, you agree to judicial diversion. He serves two years on probation and then it gets expunged.”

  “And how do I explain my agreement to reduce a first-degree murder to a negligent homicide to the people of the district?”

  “How about telling them the truth? Hang out the sheriff’s department’s dirty laundry for everyone to see. Use Peale and Raleigh and Bacon as scapegoats. People can handle the truth, Griffin. I don’t understand why politicians and government officials can’t grasp that concept.”

  He poured himself another scotch, and I noticed his cheeks were beginning to take on a pinkish glow. I watched the brown liquid drain from his glass down his throat. He set the glass down firmly.

  “All right,” he said.

  He stood and stuck out his right hand. I shook it firmly.

  “So it’s done?” I said.

  “It’s done.”

  Chapter 55

  I was grilling steaks on my deck Monday evening following Jordan’s plea. The judge accepted it, agreed to judicial diversion, and Jordan was released in the afternoon. I had invited Jordan and his parents, along with his brother and sister, out to have dinner with Caroline and me. Jordan was subdued, but I could tell he was relieved to have this particular chapter of his life behind him.

  My cell phone rang just as I pulled the last steak off the grill. I looked down and saw it was Jack, who had returned to Nashville in August to resume his studies at the Vanderbilt law school.