Cemetery Road (Sean O'Brien Book 7) (18 page)

THIRTY-TWO

J
esse Taylor didn’t consider himself a deeply religious man, but tonight he was. He whispered a silent prayer before making the only phone call he’d get before being booked into the Jackson County Jail. He made the call from the sheriff’s department after an hour of further interrogations with Detective Larry Lee. Jesse had demanded to speak with a lawyer. But there was one big problem. He didn’t have a lawyer. He looked across at the bare interrogation room, mostly white, dark scuffmarks on the floor near the table. One-way glass with oily handprint smudges on the glass.

A black phone hung on the wall. With a trembling hand, he called Caroline Harper.

“Hello.” Her voice had a tenor of suspicion.

“Caroline, this is Jesse. I’m so sorry to bother you, but I really don’t know a lot of people here with the exception of Harold Reese.”

“What’s happened, Jesse? Sean O’Brien said you were in some kind of trouble. Where are you?”

“I never formally met this guy, O’Brien, but I sure as shit saw him in action tonight. He’s a big guy who’s not afraid to stand up to a bully detective. He stood up for me as this detective was pissin’ on my leg. I got hauled off and never got a chance to thank O’Brien. But now I’m about to be locked up in the county jail on trumped up charges”

“What charges?”

“I didn’t do anything, really. Mostly it was self-defense. I was at this bar, maybe I did have one more drink than I shoulda, but that’s ‘cause I don’t drink anymore. No tolerance. Caroline, I confronted a fella by the name of Cooter Johnson. That’s probably not his real first name, but his last name’s dead on.”

“What do you mean? What happened?”

“This guy’s one of the grandsons of Hack Johnson. Johnson was one of the meanest S-O-B’s at the school. He’d beat boys within an inch of their life. I don’t know if it was him who shot Andy that night, but chances are that Johnson was one of the three men chasin’ Andy into the marsh.”

“What did you do to his grandson?”

“We tangled. Both of us got in licks. His posse, some bikers, was closing in when I pulled out a pistol and fired a shot.”

“Dear God…”

“Not at anyone. I shot into the ceiling to stop ‘em from coming. They’d have crippled me for life, or worse. They all ran like rats on a sinking boat. Another fella helped me get outta there. They locked him up too. His name’s Ace Anders.” Jesse blew out an extended breath. “Look, I don’t have a lawyer here. Don’t know a soul. I’m low on cash. I got to go before a judge tomorrow for a hearing. Maybe you could recommend a lawyer, somebody who’ll take payments. I have a sorry heart, and I’m damn remorseful to have to ask, but I—”

“It’s okay. I’m glad you called. I want to help you. It’s the least I can do for what you are trying to accomplish. I have a dear friend, we went to Florida State together, and he’s a good attorney. His name’s Daniel Grady. I’ll call him. He’ll be there for you, Jesse.”

“I can’t thank you enough. I made a mistake in one way by drawing out Cooter Johnson, but I confirmed something else, too.”

“What?”

“He’s got the same cold, flat eyes as his grandpa. If there’s a soul behind those eyes, it’s already been repossessed by Satan. I’m certain of that.”

When I got to the courtroom, Caroline Harper was already there. She sat to the far left of the room, Jesse Taylor and a half dozen other defendants were seated near a vacant jury box close to a table reserved for attorneys. One man in a suit sat at the table, his briefcase open, going through a file.

I took a seat next to Caroline. She smiled and said, “Thank you for coming. I feel bad for Jesse. He let his temper, fueled by alcohol, get the best of him.”

“Who’s the man at the table?”

“Daniel Grady. He’s been my family lawyer since we graduated from college. He does a lot of wills, trust, a few divorces, and more than his share of DUI cases.”

I looked to my right as the state prosecutor entered the courtroom. Watching her walk by, I knew Jesse Taylor might not be going back to his motel room soon. She was all business. And I recognized her.

I glanced over to Caroline and asked, “How much serious criminal defense work has your friend done?”

“I’m not sure, why?”

“Because Jesse’s about to have his butt handed to him. I recognize the state attorney. I don’t think she’s ever lost a case. I do know that she takes no prisoners. Before this dog and pony show starts, get the attention of your attorney and tell him that Jesse Taylor was questioned in the parking lot, arrested but never had his Miranda rights read to him. Tell him you have a witness. And you’d better do it now, before the prosecutor gets started.”

THIRTY-THREE

S
he was fearless. That’s what I remembered most about Lana Halley. Facing possible retaliation—death threats, for her relentless prosecution of a Mexican drug lord captured in Florida, she persevered. As an assistant state attorney, her bold approach garnered headlines for her and a life sentence for the accused. Lana Halley always did her homework. She had a steel-trap mind for details and the big picture, the tentacles of the crime and the criminals. And she had the confidence to cut the legs off any weak defense. Her liability…
they’re all guilty
.

A first-appearance bond hearing doesn’t usually give a prosecutor much time to prep. Not her. Lana’s attention to detail would prove uncanny. I remembered it when she prosecuted the head of a drug cartel caught doing business in the Ocala National Forest. She’d been resolute in the courtroom. And now, here she was, working in the Second Judicial District, geographically closer to the state capital, Tallahassee and the power base.

She walked by the dozen or so spectators, her posture straight, confident. The courtroom audience was seated, most of them probably family members of the people about to go through a bond hearing. I spotted Mohawk man. He had a large bandage across his forehead. Arm in a sling. He sat with almost a dozen people in one row near the front. Men, women, teenage boys and girls. Jeans and T-shirts. The oldest man around fifty, wore a T-shirt with a Confederate flag on the front. No grandfather figure, all family members bearing a slight resemblance to the man I
heard the detectives refer to as Clarence Cooter Johnson, AKA Mohawk. They were fair-skinned, probably linked to Scandinavian ancestry.

I looked around the room. One man sat by himself near the front row, close enough to hear everything. With his wrinkled khaki pants, denim shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, he was one of the best dressed in court. He scribbled in a small notebook, taking notes, using his phone to shoot video. Definitely a reporter. This wasn’t a trial. Nothing high profile. So why was he here? And why was he scrutinizing only one of the people facing the judge? Why was he looking at Jesse Taylor? I watched him as he observed the proceedings.

Lana Halley wore a beige suit, black hair up, strand of pearls beneath a white blouse unbuttoned below her neck. I saw her glance at the row of people, six, who were facing the judge, most here because the state required their first appearance hearing to be held within twenty-four hours of arrest.

She held her eyes on Jesse for a few seconds longer than I would have expected. He looked at her, a hopeful expression on his whiskered face, his physical manner transparent. It was then that I could tell that somehow he knew her. And she knew him. Had he been in trouble before? Had she prosecuted him in a previous case? It didn’t appear likely. There was no indication of contempt from her or from him as often the case when the system cycles habitual offenders in and out of jail like a roll of the dice in a game of Monopoly. Too often the inmates are ‘just visiting,’ serving no hard time.

I recognized one of the other men held for a first appearance. He was the stocky man with the military haircut I’d seen with Jesse when they were both arrested. A sixty-something man in
a suit, silver hair, rimless glasses, briefcase opened at the table, sat next to Jesse, studying papers. He looked up as the judge entered the courtroom.

“All rise!” barked a stout bailiff.

The judge, face thin, shaggy white eyebrows, motioned for the spectators to sit. He placed bifocals on his nose and shuffled through case files stacked at the side of his desk. After less than twenty seconds, he cleared his throat. “State of Florida verses defendant Jesse Ryan Taylor. Is Mr. Taylor present?”

The man in the suit, briefcase open, nodded. “Yes, your Honor. Mr. Taylor’s represented by counsel.”

The judge cut his eyes toward Jesse. “Mr. Taylor, you’re charged with aggravated assault, public intoxication, and last but not least—discharging a firearm in a public facility, endangering the lives of the public. Do you understand the charges, Mr. Taylor?”

Jesse nodded. “Yes sir. But—”

The attorney stood. “Your Honor, I’m requesting a bond hearing today as well. My client poses no threat. He was born in Jackson County. Has ties to the community and should be released on his own recognizance.”

Lana Halley rose from her chair. “Your Honor, the state disagrees. The defendant, Mr. Taylor, may have been born here, but he hasn’t returned to the area for decades. Some of his youth was spent in the Florida School for Boys. He’s lived in the Jacksonville area most of his adult life. So why is Mr. Taylor here, back in the county after decades? His actions in Shorty’s Billiards define his intentions.”

The judge leaned forward, bushy eyebrows rising, peering over his bifocals. “We don’t prosecute intentions, Miss Halley. Only actions that break the laws of the land.”

“I understand, your Honor. However, for the purpose of establishing an appropriate bond, the state will show at this hearing how, in Mr. Taylor’s case, his actions in the bar are commensurate and inseparable with intent. It’s not unlike the gunpowder behind a bullet. Separate, both are harmless. Together, with a hair trigger connected to a personal vendetta fueled by alcohol…it’s a lethal mixture.”

Caroline Harper looked over to me and whispered. “I’m praying for Jesse. She makes him sound like a terrorist.”

I looked at the reflection on the judge’s glasses, a glint of light coming from the back of the courtroom. The doors had opened and closed. I turned slowly and saw the detective who arrested Jesse entering, standing for a second before taking a seat in the back row. This wasn’t a criminal trial. But in the last few minutes it was taking the appearance of one.

And I might become its first witness.

THIRTY-FOUR

L
ana Halley never made direct eye contact with the detective, but I knew she was aware he’d arrived. Her delivery was a little sharper, going for a closing in a hearing that wasn’t even an arraignment. Maybe it would never make it to the arraignment stage if Jesse’s attorney could get it tossed out for a Miranda rights violation.

Lana stepped in front of her table, arms and body relaxed. “Mr. Taylor came to the state attorney’s office a few days ago. He did so, voluntarily, because he wanted the office to convene a grand jury to look into alleged improprieties at the Florida School for Boys during the time he was incarcerated there. Mr. Taylor, after all these years, still carries a resentful grudge, a potential dangerous revenge against anyone who worked at the school during the time he was confined there.”

I watched her rapid presentation, pausing for the right effect, looking from the judge back to Jesse and his attorney. Now I knew why I was picking up on the awkward familiarity that I first noticed when Jesse watched her walk into the room. He’d met with her earlier. Not good.

Lana said, “Your Honor, police reports citing eyewitnesses, indicate that Mr. Taylor singled out one man, Clarence Johnson, who was playing billiards, simply because Mr.
Johnson’s grandfather worked at the former reform school. Mr. Taylor, according to the reports, started the altercation, resulting in gunfire and oral threats to both Mr. Johnson and his grandfather, who wasn’t present at the time.”

“Your Honor,” the attorney lifted both hands, palms out, glaring at Lana Halley. He shook his head. “The prosecutor is basing her allegations purely on hearsay, accounts that police got from witnesses who are friends or colleagues of Clarence Johnson. My client did not start the fight. He was defending himself. He had no choice but to stand his ground, and he has a witness as well. He’s seated in this courtroom, and he’s a decorated former member of the U.S. Army Rangers. Ace Anders is charged with aggravated battery for helping Mr. Taylor exit the building before a mob descended on Mr. Taylor for winning a game of billiards, and defeating Mr. Johnson in front of his friends. Mr. Taylor also was an Army Ranger who served in Vietnam. The state sites the information on the arrest report as her source. We have a witness who says Mr. Taylor wasn’t read his Miranda rights before, during, or after his arrest. So we contend this first appearance should be a last appearance and my client released immediately.”

The judge leaned forward, tilting his head as if he wanted the attorney to repeat the statement. “Is your witness in the court?”

The attorney looked back toward Caroline and me. I stood and said, “Yes, your Honor, I’m here.” I could feel Lana Halley’s eyes boring into me.