Three Sides of the Tracks (23 page)

Danny took the clipboard. “Ma’am, I don’t mind waiting, but Brandy’s in a
lot of pain and—”

The lady held up both hands. “They’ll be right with you; don’t worry.
Just start writing, so they can get permission to work on you.
All
of
you.”

36

Bart’s Duty

Bart arrived at Grady Hospital and was listening to Bernard’s unorthodox,
sometimes rambling tale of events when his cell phone rang and he learned of
the shooting at Jessie Whitaker’s house. The only thing he’d learned for sure
from Bernard was that Danny had not stolen the car and that the man who shot
Bernard had done so in the process of trying to find Danny. That knowledge
cleared up one mess but created another. At least he’d get the satisfaction of
enlightening the all-mighty FBI men in the error of their so-called deductive
reasoning.

“You look like somebody run off with your wife,” Bernard said after Bart
ended his call.

“Cut the homilies, Bernard. What state was Martin in when he left here?”

A completely confused expression replaced the half smile on Bernard’s face.
“State? What the hell you tryin’ to pull? You know what state we’re in. You
tryin’ to make out I’m crazy now or something?”

Bart controlled his impatience. Bernard obviously wasn’t trying to be
funny. “I mean state of mind. Was he mad? Furious? You said they left abruptly
after you told them the man who shot you was looking for Danny. I just need to
know how Martin reacted.”

“He was mad as hell. What’d you expect? Crap, find out a man’s been
creeping around yore woman’s house looking to kill yore son, I spect you’d be
mad as all get out too.”

“I need a straight answer from you, Bernard. Did Martin seem to think
Jessie Whitaker was behind all of it?”

Bernard averted his eyes.

Bart grabbed both Bernard’s shoulders. “Uh uh. No bull crap now. I’ve
never prosecuted you for all the things you’ve done, but if you don’t level
with me—”

“Yes, damn it. Yes. He figured it right quick. Any idiot could figure
that. Cain’t you?”

Bart released him and sighed. “Figuring and proving are two different
things. Jessie just shot Martin. He’s dead.”

All the deviousness, duplicity, and evasiveness left Bernard’s eyes as
the color drained from his face. His jaw sagged open, then his mouth worked
attempting to find the words to say.

Bart put a hand on Bernard’s back and tried to block all the emotion he
himself felt. If he succumbed to his feelings, he might miss something, and
this was one case where he determined justice would be served.  

Bernard covered his face with his hands and lay back against the raised
bed. His shoulders shook with sobs amid bits of recriminating mumbling.

Finally, he lowered his hands and wiped his face. “Mr. Phillips, that’s
about the worst doggone news I ever did hear. You should’ve seen ‘em together
today. And now her and that kid gotta go through . . . I know I’m somewhat to
blame. Just don’t know ‘xactly how. But whatever you want to tie on me is plum
fine with me.”

  It was all Bart could do to hold himself together. He took Bernard’s
hand with a strong grip. “I don’t know so much about your blame, Bernard. If we
knew how every little thing we did was going to turn out, none of us would ever
do anything. Just how it is sometimes. I know what you did, you did out of
kindness, and that’s not a bad thing. Don’t be too hard on yourself. I’ve gotta
get back home and see the evidence. It happened at Whitaker’s house, so I’ve
got a bad feeling about this. Hanging anything on him, that is.”

Their eyes met in mutual respect then Bart nodded and left to face the
grim task of seeing Martin’s body. But first he had to reach Belinda before she
heard the news from anyone else. A few hours ago they had gone back in time and
been teenagers again. And now, well, now there was nothing. That’s what death
did: Turned everything to nothing.

37

Scot-free

Charles Morrison knew a big fee when he saw one. He left Atlanta a few
minutes after Jessie’s wife called. Jessie had been paying him a fifty thousand
dollar retainer for several years now and this was the first time he’d have to
do more than make a few phone calls to earn it. Plus the fee for his actual
work, but, from what little the surprisingly calm Mrs. Whitaker had told him,
this should be a cake walk.

There was no dearth of flashing lights when Morrison stopped at the
police road block across Jessie’s driveway. He sat in his forest green Jaguar
until an irritated deputy sheriff walked over to see who was behind the tinted
windows. It was important to establish hierarchy at the beginning.

Morrison let the deputy wait a few seconds before rolling down his window
halfway. “I’m Mr. Whitaker’s attorney. Would you please move the barricade?”

The deputy, a young man in his middle twenties, tried to conceal his awe of
the expensive car and imposing physical presence of Morrison, whose steely grey
eyes matched the color of his tailored suit. The maroon bowtie held his gaze
far too long because he’d never seen anyone in Benson wearing one.

“Do you have identification, sir?” the deputy finally stuttered.

Morrison couldn’t resist looking amused. “You mean do I have a card that
reads ‘Jessie Whitaker’s attorney?’ ”

The deputy’s expression went blank then embarrassed. “Yeah, I guess I see
what you mean.” He turned around and moved the temporary blockade and waved Morrison
through.

Morrison stopped beside the deputy. “My intern will arrive soon. His name
is Gant. Anthony Gant. Please let him through without delay. We need to take
time-sensitive photographs. Will that be a problem?”

“Does he drive a silver Toyota, sir?”

Morrison nodded.

“I believe he’s already here. I thought he was with the crime scene
folks.”

On his short trip up the driveway, Morrison realized that, since Whitaker
lived outside the city limits, the sheriff’s office would be in charge of the
investigation. He smiled knowing that Jessie Whitaker certainly would have any
and all elected officials in his little domain firmly in his pockets. “I should
have just sent the intern,” he muttered.

He parked behind a dark Crown Victoria he recognized as belonging to the
Georgia Bureau of Investigation agent or agents aiding in the investigation.
They weren’t hard to spot among the local detectives. Suits instead of slacks
and short-sleeve shirts. Different hair styles. Different bearing. Definitely a
different bearing. Morrison saw only one though, and he appeared to be on good
terms with the locals as they stood in a group apart from the uniformed
deputies, who were more concerned about protecting the crime scene than
anything else.

Jessie and Marie sat together on a front porch step, the latter obviously
upset judging by the Kleenex in her hands and swollen eyes. Jessie, as
expected, had a drink in one hand and a belligerent expression on his face,
but, unexpectedly, cuts and abrasions covered his face.

Morrison didn’t wait to be asked. He handed one of the uniforms a
business card as he walked past the cordoned-off alleged crime scene including
a chalk outline of the deceased’s body and small pools of blood.

Morrison adjusted his rimless glasses and laid a hand on Marie’s shoulder
as he knelt to eye level. “I know this has to be very upsetting, Mrs. Whitaker.
Is there anything I can do?”

Marie trembled under his touch, and the surprised expression in her eyes
came from being acknowledged first, if at all, when Jessie was present.
Surprise gave way to a mixture of fear and anxiety about what was likely to
come next. She’d already given statements to the local detectives and the GBI
man. Now, she’d have to contend with this lawyer and later Jessie’s berating
because whatever she said would be wrong in Jessie’s view.

She dabbed at her eyes with the Kleenex and said, “No, but thank you for
asking.”

Morrison offered his hand to Jessie. “I’m very sorry, Jessie.”

Jessie shook the hand. “Sumbitch attacked me. Me. At my own home,” he
said through swollen lips.

“I’m glad to see you kept your head. Or ‘wits,’ I suppose would be more
appropriate.” Morrison referred to the obviously untreated condition of
Jessie’s face and head, which had clumps of matted blood in several areas.

“I want my assistant to take some photos before I ask you any questions,”
Morrison said and waved the young intern forward.

“He’s done took ‘bout a thousand. How many more you want?” Jessie
growled.
“I need to be sure he takes the ones I want him to take, although I appreciate
his eagerness.”

Morrison instructed Gant to take several shots from different angles of
every cut and abrasion on Jessie’s face, arms, and head. He learned long ago
that the same cut could look very different depending on the angle and lighting
it was photographed under. And, if in the million-to-one chance this ever went
to trial, he wanted every possible advantage. He would do the same to the
deceased if he thought it necessary.

“Okay, that’s out of the way. I hope I rightfully assume that since you
refused medical treatment you also refused to give a statement.”

“Damn right I did. Not her. Blab, blab, blab. That poor man this. Poor
man that.”

Morrison gave Jessie a warning look. An antagonized witness would not do.
Not at all.

“I’m sure Mrs. Whitaker did what she thought appropriate,” Morrison said
along with the most understanding smile he could muster.

Marie understood the comment for what it was and sat stoically on the
step.

“Let’s go inside, shall we?” Morrison said.

“Sounds like a winner. Come on, Marie.”

Morrison held out a hand to assist Marie while Jessie stood and strode
through the doorway without a backward glance.

Morrison sat on one of the living room couches next to Marie. “Mrs. Whitaker,
first I want to ask whether you are aware you don’t have to talk to anyone
about the incident since you are Jessie’s wife, and the law gives you the same
rights as the accused?”

“I told her,” Jessie squawked.

Marie felt better after coming inside and not having to see the
blood-stained driveway. “I know I don’t have to testify if I don’t want to, but
I didn’t see any harm in giving the police a statement. Besides, I did hit the
man with a lamp.”

“You did?” Morrison said, surprised. The docile woman beside him didn’t
appear capable of killing a bug much less hitting someone with a lamp. Any jury
seeing her would immediately conclude there must have been extreme
circumstances to cause her to react in that manner. And most D.A.s weren’t
stupid and wouldn’t even consider taking a case to trial unless they were
confident of a conviction.

“He was pretty rough on Jessie. Not saying he didn’t deserve it, but the
man—Martin Townsend I believe—was out of control, enraged. I just . . . just
had no idea that Jessie would shoot him though.” She gave Jessie a withering
look.

“I’m sorry. I know this is difficult for you. I’ll be as brief as I can.
I just want to get a picture of the chain of events, so I’ll know how the
District Attorney is likely to handle this. Of course, D.A.s don’t much care
about real guilt or innocence, just whether they can get a conviction.”

Marie frowned hearing this last comment.

“So I assume you heard a disturbance that brought you outside, at which
time you saw a man beating your husband. And obviously Jessie wasn’t able to
defend himself or you wouldn’t have . . . um intervened. Is that correct?”

Marie nodded as she focused her eyes on the crumpled Kleenex in her hand.

“What was your position at the time your wife hit the deceased, Jessie?”

“I’m not exactly sure. I was either face down on the concrete or on my
hands and knees trying to make it to my car. I thought the guy was going to
kill me. In fact, that’s what he was screaming. ‘I’ll kill you, you son of a
bitch,’ or something like that. I was pretty scared, so it’s hard to remember
exactly, but that’s pretty close.”

“You definitely thought your life was in danger?”

“Hell, yeah, I did. Look at my face.”

“I have. Believe me,” Morrison said and threw in a comforting smile he
was sure Jessie understood.

“Unless they can prove you somehow lured him out here with the intent of
shooting him, I don’t see any cause for concern at this point. I’ll talk to the
police and get their reports and then speak with the D.A. I’ll call and let you
know what they say, but I wouldn’t spend any time worrying about any charges.
Not going to happen. Especially with your wife’s intervention.”

Morrison said the last hoping it might lessen Jessie’s berating, at least
temporarily. Jessie was not his favorite client. He couldn’t bring himself to
telling her that the D.A. could choose to charge her the same as Jessie or with
a lesser charge since she had indeed been involved in the chain of events that
led to the man’s death.

Plus, the deceased did not have a weapon.

State of mind was the key factor, both on the deceased’s part and the Whitaker’s.

“One more thing, Jessie. What was your relationship with the deceased?
Was there any trouble between you prior to this?”

“Plenty.”

“Do I need to know about it now?”

“I caused a row at one of the restaurants in town after my daughter was
kidnapped. The dead guy was in there with a kid who was involved in it.”

Wrinkles across Morrison’s forehead showed his concern. “I’m very sorry
about your daughter. This ‘kid’ is under arrest I assume.”

“No, he’s not under arrest. That’s all in Jessie’s mind,” Marie said.

Jessie leapt from the armchair. “So you say. The little punk has you all
fooled. Just shut it, Marie. I’ve heard enough out of you for one day.”

Marie stood up. “Careful what you ask for, Jessie. You just might get
it.”