Cemetery Road (Sean O'Brien Book 7) (24 page)

Sonia Acker entered Ruby’s Coffee Shop, hesitated at the front door, spotted Jesse and Caroline at a back table and walked towards them. Jesse looked up and smiled. He watched her
approach, wondering what she was carrying in the paper grocery sack. She stepped up to the table and Jesse said, “Good to see you, Sonia. This is Caroline Harper. It was her brother, Andy Cope, who got shot in the reform school that night. Your uncle, Jeremiah, saw who did it. Please, sit down. You want some coffee, somethin’ to eat?”

“No thank you. I can’t be stayin’ long.”

Jesse smiled. “Your eye sure looks better than the last time I saw you.”

She was embarrassed, self-consciously touching her eyebrow with two fingers. She looked over her shoulders, glancing around the coffee shop. “What I want to show you is in this bag. My Uncle Jeremiah cut it down early this morning when he saw it hangin’ from a cottonwood tree in the middle of granny’s front yard.” She reached in the bag and retrieved a short piece of quarter-inch rope. The rope had been fastened into a hangman’s noose. She set the noose down in the middle of the table.

Caroline sat straighter. “Dear God. This is inexcusable.”

Jesse said, “It’s got to be one of those assholes in the Johnson family.”

Sonia moistened her dry lower lip. She said, “But why now? My uncle ain’t never said who done it. He tol’ my grandma last night that you’d visited wit’ him, and your friend, a tall man, was there. But Uncle Jeremiah said he didn’t tell ya’ll who was responsible for the boy’s death. So why would somebody hang this from my grandma’s tree?”

Jesse blew out a long breath. “It’s on account of me.”

“You? If you don’t know who did it, you can’t tell anybody.”

“And that’s why the noose was there. Somebody related to the killer obviously wants the secret to remain a secret. I was stupid in telling the prosecutor and detectives that Jeremiah knew who did it, thinking they’d talk with him and arrest or file charges against the people responsible, assuming some are still living. Apparently, some are still kicking or this never would have happened.”

“What you gonna do now? What’s my uncle gonna do now? He doesn’t want to move away the rest of his life. He’s gettin’ older. And he’s not travelin’ too far away no more to pick. And his mama is old. She needs him.”

Caroline reached out and touched the young woman’s arm. “Sonia, I’m so sorry that some racist did this. Maybe you should report it to the police. At least they’ll have a record of it. Maybe there’s some DNA there in the knot of the rope. Something physical they’d have to go on.”

“With all due respect, Miss Harper, you know they won’t do anything. That’s the way it is. In some ways, the area has changed a lot for the better. In other ways, it’s the same as it was a long time ago.”

Jesse stared at the noose and lifted his eyes up to Sonia. “I need to talk with Jeremiah.”

“I doubt he got nothin’ more to say.”

“I couldn’t blame him. I need to make it up to Jeremiah, to take the heat off him. If I know who did it…I can go after them, or they can come after me. At this point, I don’t much care.”

FORTY-FIVE

O
n the way into town from the country club, I thought about Lana Halley. Not Lana Halley of late, but rather the fearless prosecutor I’d witnessed in the Pablo Gonzalez murder trial. Her tenacity and courtroom savvy was only topped by her adamant judicial moral code. For her, especially in a case as black and white as the Gonzalez trial, there was no gray area. No room for compromise. No pleading to lesser charges. She was textbook. Beyond concession or reproach.

Then why was she willing to drop charges against Ace Anders to nail Jesse Taylor? Maybe what I’d just witnessed at the country club was part of the answer. Maybe Lana had succumbed to at least one of the seven deadly sins. Greed. Was she so power-hungry she would compromise her integrity to get Jeff Carson’s job should he be tapped to become the next U.S. Attorney General? And that’s assuming Governor Burnett would come out on top in the primaries and go on to win the presidential election.

I needed to talk to her. Not on the phone. Away from her office. Somewhere private. Someplace I could get an accurate reading as to what was or wasn’t motivating her. Before that, I had to meet with Jesse and Caroline. I called Jesse’s number en route to the Alpine Inn. No answer. Voice-mail. I disconnected and called Caroline. She said, “Sean, where are you?”

I never like conversations opening like that. “I’m headed your way.”

“Jesse’s gone.”

“What do you mean by gone?”

“I believe he’s gone to find Jeremiah Franklin. Jeremiah’s niece was just here. She brought something in a paper bag that was frightening. And she left it here.”

“I’m almost there. Stay at the coffee shop, and I’ll meet you in a minute.”

I was doing fifty-seven miles-per-hour in a fifty-five stretch of county road. I wanted to push the Jeep beyond the speed limit, but I didn’t want to take a chance. I had no doubt that the brothers Grimm had called family members and connections within the justice system. Since I’d captured their aggression and language on camera, it wasn’t my word against theirs. I doubted charges had been filed.

When I hit the Marianna city limits, I got an insight—a feeling that I often sensed when something ominous was just beyond my peripheral vision. Beyond the blind spots and tucked in dark corners. I slowed to a speed below the posted limit. I checked all three mirrors. There was nothing but sporadic traffic. A minivan with a mother and two children coming in my direction. A semi-truck slowing at a traffic light, the driver on his cell phone, trying to spot landmarks. A beer distributing truck behind me.

And then, like a yellow canary in the wind, a flash of color came up quickly behind the delivery truck. When I checked my side-view mirrors a second time, the yellow was not visible. I assumed it was the 1950’s model pickup and the driver was following close behind the beer truck. When the distributing truck changed lanes for a left-hand turn, the yellow pickup was about ten car lengths behind me. I could see the Mohawk haircut, saw Cooter Johnson adverting his head from my immediate direction.

Another person sat in the front seat. I recognized him, too. He was the man with the beard, the guy who held court with his clan outside the courthouse when Jesse was sent to jail. And now his beard was gone, his face hard as stone. And he was the same man who’d debriefed the old man who’d remained in the car while the family attended Jesse’s hearing.

Cooter Johnson quickly turned into the lane the beer distributing truck had followed. I turned right at the traffic light and stayed within the speed limit, driving toward the coffee shop. I parked in front of the shop’s main window so I could have a view of my Jeep. And I sat there, listening to the ticking engine cooling, the sound of church bells in the distance. I watched all three mirrors. There was no sign of the yellow truck. I shoved my Glock under my belt in the center of my back and got out of the Jeep.

Caroline Harper tried to smile, waiting for me at one of the nine tables in the shop. The smell of fresh ground coffee met me at the door. The place was quaint—hardwood floors decades old that groaned under my shoes, coffee themed prints on the wall, and dozens of ceramic cups for sale on the shelves. Two college kids were sitting at the same table, laptops open, ear-buds wedged into their hearing canals. A middle-aged woman, a barista—maybe Ruby, worked the counter, cutting an apple pie while waiting for a cappuccino to finish pouring from the machine.

I took a seat next to Caroline with a view out the window of my Jeep. “I wish I could have been here earlier, but I had to follow a lead that happened as I was driving. What did Jeremiah Franklin’s niece show you?”

Caroline leaned closer, her body language stiff, tense. “It’s here, in a paper bag. She was going to throw it in the trash.” She reached under the table and lifted a grocery bag. “It’s a noose fashioned from a small rope.”

“You mean a hangman’s noose?” I took the bag and peered inside.

“Somebody hung it during the night from a cottonwood tree in her grandmother’s yard. Her Uncle Jeremiah was in the house at the time. He cut it from the tree when he saw it this morning. I have no idea where he is now, not after this.”

“Maybe he’s still at his mother’s home. Do you have the address?”

“No, but I can find it for you. I’m afraid for Jesse. And what Mr. Franklin and his family were exposed to…it’s unthinkable. We told Sonia to go to the police, but she feels that’ll do nothing. She may be right. But I have to believe there are good and decent law enforcement people in the city and county.”

I thought back to the night at Shorty’s Billiards when one of the deputies told Detective Lee that maybe the Miranda rights weren’t read to Jesse. “
Detective Lee, sir, I think he’s correct—”

“Shut up, Parker! When and if you become a detective, your opinion matters.”

“Caroline, the night Jesse was arrested at Shorty’s, I watched a deputy, his name was Parker—he questioned a detective when Jesse was arrested. This deputy told the detective that the Miranda rights were never read. I believe Parker will do an honest investigation.”

“What can we do?”

“I’ll call him.” I used my phone to find the number to the sheriff’s office and hit dial.

A female dispatcher answered the phone. I asked, “Is Deputy Parker in today.”

“Hold on.” She was gone for a few seconds. “He’s on a call. Can I take a message?”

“Yes, please have him call Sean O’Brien. It’s in reference to some evidence he’s looking for.” I gave her my number and disconnected.

Caroline said, “I hope he’s fair. You think he’ll call you?”

“I think so.”

“Maybe he’ll investigate. Sean, Jesse was so upset when he left here. He feels guilty and wants to do what’s right, to make up for his mistake to Jeremiah. He said if he knows who murdered Andy, that knowledge will take some of the threat off of Jeremiah.”

“In the eyes of the law it means nothing. All that counts is the person who actually witnessed the killing. And that was one man, Jeremiah Franklin.”

“I don’t believe Jesse was thinking about that. He’s pretty discouraged about the law. I believe he wants the killer’s name for one reason, and that reason is to personally go after him.”

“That would be suicide or the death penalty. Either way, the outcome is the same.”

“I don’t think Jesse cares anymore—at least not about himself or his problems. And that’s because, for the first time in a long time, he has something bigger to care about: justice for Andy and the rest of the boys.”

“Maybe I can find Jesse and Jeremiah. If I’m lucky, they’ll be in the same place, and then I can speak with them both. We have to come up with a game plan. And part of that has to include a prosecutor that cares deeply about justice.” Something caught my eye. Outside the window, standing near my Jeep, was a man dressed in a jungle-green camouflaged shirt,
matching baseball cap, jeans. He looked directly toward the window of the coffee shop. He held up a key and stepped to the side of my Jeep, face hard as stone. I looked at Caroline and said, “Outside—the man next to my Jeep. Do you know him?”

Her eyes widened. Eyebrows lifting. “That’s Solomon Johnson…Cooter’s father. He has two other sons. Although I don’t personally know him, I’ve heard he’s a man born without a soul.”

FORTY-SIX

I
t was bait. Pure and simple.
Come out into the daylight and let’s see what happens
. Solomon Johnson, sporting an attitude along with his hunter’s camouflage, stood next to my Jeep with a key in his hand. He was a man ready to cut a scar into the Jeep’s exterior paint. I didn’t think he’d do it in the light of day, in public, in front of a downtown coffee shop.

So what was his game? Why’d he want me to step outside?

What I didn’t know was who might be standing on either side of the shop’s front door. Or who might be on a rooftop with a rifle, scope, and the skill to send a bullet through my head from a block away. I looked over to the woman grinding a pound of coffee and asked, “Do you have a backdoor?”

She seemed surprised. “Yes, hardly anybody uses it. It’s past the bathroom. Goes into the back parking lot.”

“Thanks.” I turned to Caroline. “Stay here. If something happens, call the deputy I mentioned—Deputy Parker. Maybe he’s off his call by now.”

“What do you think Solomon Johnson wants?”

“I’ll ask him.” I watched the sun come out from behind a cloud. I hoped the light would reflect from the window, making it difficult for Johnson to see deep inside. He lit a cigarette, his eyes looking down. I turned, sprinting down a short hall, past the single restroom, past a small supply closet and out a door into the back lot. I ran about fifty feet to my right, ran by a dumpster that smelled of decaying chicken and shrimp. I reached back and touched my Glock in its holster tucked into the belt under my shirt.

I found an alley and cut down it, stepping over an empty bottle of cheap wine and a Anders beer bottle on its side. When I got to the end of the alley I stopped, warily peering to the left and then the right. There was nothing but a few shoppers. An elderly man sat on a bench next to a barbershop, reading a newspaper. I looked at rooftops. Looked for the yellow pickup truck. Nothing.

I watched Solomon Johnson for a second. He stared into the window. Motionless. A smoldering cigarette wedged in one corner of his mouth. I waited for a propane gas truck to come down the road. As it passed me, I jogged behind it, keeping the truck between Solomon Johnson and me. Then I cut to my left and ran across the street. Johnson was now fifty feet in front of me. I slipped my shoes off, placing them under a park bench, and walked silently across the street. When I got with ten feet of Johnson I said, “If you wanted to talk, you could have come inside.”

He lowered his hand holding the key, slowly turning around to face me. I stood at least a head taller than him, even in my socks. He was about sixty. Lean. Ropey brown arms. He stared at me for a moment. No emotion. Deadpan dark eyes. Mouth small. Cleft chin. He was the member of the Johnson family I’d seen walking from the courthouse steps to join the old man in the car. I could see by the slow rise and fall of his chest that he was not nervous, in control. The
sun went behind a cloud. He said, “You did a real bad thing to my boys. Broke Earl’s arm. That ain’t smart.”