Hidden Summit

Nineteen

Conner had skipped the opening remarks at the trial, but decided to go to court for the testimony of the police officers who answered his call. He was escorted by an officer in an unmarked car, his truck safely stowed in a very large, crowded mall parking lot where it would not be linked to him and not tampered with.

There were a lot of cops testifying, not to mention a coroner. The coroner’s report would come later, but the photos and examination of the deceased at the scene were entered as evidence and testimony.

For the first time since this whole ordeal had begun, he had a very uneasy, unsure feeling. Regis Mathis didn’t look like a murderer in this setting. Conner already knew he didn’t sound like a murderer, this pillar of the community. There was nothing slick about him. He didn’t look like the kind of man who would be friends with Dickie Randolph. And the D.A.’s allegation that they were even in business together seemed impossible.

Mathis was a tall, regal man with expensive tastes. This wasn’t something Conner would have known, had his off-duty cop protector and escort not said to him, “Man, that’s at least a ten-thousand-dollar suit.” And as Conner watched Mathis from the back of the courtroom, the man was very clearly comfortable, confident, very much at ease with these proceedings, as if he didn’t have a care in the world. And he had four attorneys up front, more assistants in the gallery along with his distinguished-looking family and two priests.

On the other side of the courtroom, divvied up like the bride’s side and the groom’s side, sat a couple of cheap-looking young women with men who had a disreputable look about them—Randolph’s associates, perhaps?

At one point Mathis looked straight at Conner and gave him a half smile and nod, almost a welcoming gesture. Welcome to the party, son! It was impossible to picture him in an orange jumpsuit. If he hadn’t seen it with his own eyes, he couldn’t imagine him doing what he’d done. It was, in a word, incomprehensible.

And Regis Mathis did not expect to be convicted.

Conner wondered if he’d been too optimistic. If he were a seated jury member it would be hard for him to imagine this stately, polite and reserved man as the kind of cold-blooded killer who could put a bullet in a man’s head, drag his body out of a car and heft it into a Dumpster. Harder still, if a meticulous man such as Regis Mathis, a man who constantly pulled at his crisp white shirt cuffs, wanted someone dead, why didn’t he hire it out? Why get his own hands dirty? He was, after all, richer than God.

Conner didn’t expect him to be convicted, either. While the story was completely true, it was unbelievable. If it had been any other kind of murder, maybe. But this kind? In a dingy alley, bullet to the head, tossed in a Dumpster? A victim with duct tape over his mouth and binding his wrists and ankles? Not this man, this very classy man who endowed charities and endorsed politicians.

He was required to be in court the next day, or at least in the building, available. He had a brief temptation to buy an equally expensive suit, though he knew it wouldn’t look the same on him as it looked on Mathis.

While he paid attention to the testimony of cops, homicide detectives and other officials who had been on the scene, all he could think about was that he couldn’t wait until the day was done and he could call Leslie and Katie. And he was afraid to call them. He wasn’t sure how he could keep from saying, It’s hopeless. I’m going to be in hiding for the rest of my life. And anyone who throws their lot in with me will be hiding, too.

When court was dismissed for the day, Conner exited with his cop and waited in the hallway for the room to empty. Then he doubled back to the courtroom and said, “Give me a second with the D.A.” Then he reentered the courtroom. At the front table, Max was speaking quietly with one of his associates as they both shuffled papers into their briefcases. Conner came up behind them and cleared his throat.

Max turned. “Yes, Conner?”

Conner looked around to be sure they weren’t overheard by any bystanders. Then he looked back at Max. “You’re never going to get him, are you?”

“I am going to,” Max said confidently.

“He doesn’t look like a killer,” Conner said. “If I were a juror—”

“I have a lot of faith in the system,” Max said. “What we’re going to do now is deliver the evidence we’ve prepared, solid evidence, irrefutable evidence, and win the day. That’s what we’re going to do.”

“And you’re counting on me?”

“You’re the only eyewitness to the crime, but you’re not the only thing we’ve got. We have a motive.”

“Care to share?” he asked with a tinge of sarcasm.

“Your wife wasn’t the only person hanging around that drug-infested shit hole. There was another person of interest there. A person Dickie Randolph took great joy in messing up and filling with drugs and alcohol and probably dirty sex. Mathis’s twenty-one-year-old daughter. The light of his life.”

Conner’s eyes grew large. “Are you going to be able to present that?”

Max lifted his chin. “If it’s not suppressed. It is his daughter....”

Conner looked at him for a long, still moment. He finally understood why a man like Mathis would take it upon himself to deal out revenge rather than outsource the job. But could it be proven? And would the jury ever hear it? If they heard it, would they believe it of this good, classy, God-fearing man?

He gave a nod—what were his choices? And then he said, “We’re f*cked.”





Conner and his cop left the courthouse from the side door and walked around the block to the parking lot because Regis Mathis was playing to the press. Conner didn’t have that kind of savvy, and, while he couldn’t avoid the questions forever, he was bound to come off sounding unsure and vulnerable. Or angry, because as time went by, this whole thing just made him angrier. As they were entering the parking lot, he heard his name, the name that still made him turn.

“Danny?”

Samantha!

Well, she could find a way to get a letter to him, why wouldn’t she be able to find him leaving the courthouse? “What are you doing here?” he asked her.

“I had hoped to talk to you,” Samantha said.

He just shook his head and laughed. “I’ve tried to be very clear and very kind at the same time—we don’t have anything to talk about.”

“But, Danny, we do,” she said, taking another step toward him. “I was contacted by some lawyers and they’re thinking of calling me as a witness for the defense. I wanted you to know.”

RoboCop stepped up. “Ma’am, that’s a discussion we can’t be having with you. You’ll have to move along now.”

Conner put his hand on his cop’s arm. “What can you possibly have to say to defend that man?”

“Don’t!” his escort said. “Don’t discuss it!”

Samantha put her hands up, palms toward Conner and his escort. “All right, all right, we won’t discuss it. But can’t we have a short conversation? About what’s happened in the past two years?”

Conner looked at her. In fact, he looked her up and down and shook his head. She was beautiful with her small, buxom but trim frame, dark hair, pale skin and red lips. That was the first thing that had attracted him. The second thing was that she was so focused on him, flirting and entertaining. Sexy, she was very sexy, and she had liked him. Why wouldn’t a man go for that? And she was smart. Manipulative, but very clever—any man would be willing to be manipulated by a dish like Sam. Until they knew, of course.

“Why me?” he finally said.

“Why you?” she repeated. “Because we were married!”

“No, no. Samantha…Sam. I mean, why do you keep bothering me? Look at you. You don’t need me for anything. We were married for a very short time, then divorced. You can have any man you want. In fact, you probably have. All I want now is for you to leave me alone.”

“What if I say you were with me at that club? The one the dead man owned?”

His lips curved in a slight smile. “What? You think that threat will make me want to take you out? Buy you a drink?”

“Ma’am,” the cop said.

“Hey, knock yourself out,” Conner said. “I’m sure my protective friend here will be in touch with the D.A. who will be in touch with the judge who will be sure you get a day off from court. Enjoy. Get your hair done or something.”

And he turned and walked with his escort into the parking lot.

“Danny!”

Please, God, please make her go away! He got in the car and his escort started the engine.

“We’re going to have to report that.”

“Come on,” Conner said. “She just wants to…” What? Get laid? Get back with him? Get what? Control? “Yeah,” he finally said. “You want to call Max or should I?”

“I’ll call him,” the cop said. “When I get you back to the hotel, you can also call him. We’ll get you some room service tonight, and I’m handing you off to another officer. I’m going home to dinner.”

“Wish I was going home to dinner,” Conner mumbled.

“You will be in a couple of days, pal. Um, that lady—I assume by what she said she was your ex-wife? She might have a little jail time and a big fine. What she was doing, for whatever reason, that’s against the law. It’s called witness tampering.”

“Well, if it makes any difference, I’m not looking to punish her for anything. I just want to get on with my life, that’s all.”





“This has to stay in this tight little group,” Brie said, holding on to a longneck beer. “Just between the five of us. Jack?” she asked.

“What?” he returned, insulted.

Her gaze connected with Paul, Leslie, Preacher and finally her brother. “You’re the only one I worry about. You know—you like to talk.”

“Not if I know it’s a secret!” he said.

“Until this trial is over, it’s a secret. Until the trial is completely over, it’s a secret, get that? Because being the only witness is a pretty tenuous position.”

“Got it!” Jack said, not happily.

“So, he’s the only witness. He left town to spend a little time with his family, location confidential, and then to Sacramento to appear. Another week or so, depending on how long the jury takes, it should be behind us. Then, with luck, he’s no longer a threat to the defendant and we can all relax.”

“Have you talked to him?” Leslie asked.

“I haven’t. I’m keeping up with the trial and it seems to be going all right for the prosecution so far. They’ve called police, detectives and the coroner—there were so many on the scene, it took the first days,” Brie said.

“Hold on,” Preacher said, reaching for the remote.

The volume on the TV had been turned way down, and he turned it up as a face appeared. A very confident and distinguished man was speaking into a lot of handheld microphones. “Blood?” he asked. “I don’t know that there was blood in the car. There certainly wasn’t any blood anyone could see. I hear claims that there had been blood at one time, revealed by some old lab test. One of my sons wondered if it could be his—apparently he had a severe bloody nose after a round of golf. I was unaware of that because he was fine and it was cleaned up.”

“The defendant,” Brie said.

“Didn’t the prosecution allege it was the victim’s blood?”

“From some C.S.I. kind of magic lab test?” he returned with a chuckle. “We know those DNA tests are never wrong, don’t we?” he asked facetiously. “That’s why so many wrongly accused felons have been released from prison lately, right?”

“How would you explain the presence of blood in your car?” someone asked.

“No further comment,” another man, presumably his lawyer, interjected.

“Mr. Mathis, it’s been speculated that you invested in Mr. Randolph’s businesses....”

“Look, I have a lot of employees, a few of them responsible for accounting and investments, and I assure you, if it is discovered they invested in shady businesses like those of Mr. Randolph, they’ll be looking for work. We’re investigating that now. But I had never met the man.”

“Wasn’t your car seen at the scene?” a reporter asked.

“Cherry,” he said, smiling, “my family owns fourteen cars.”

“Clever,” Brie said. “He knows the reporters by name....”

“No further comment,” the lawyer said again. “We’ll let this play out in court and I have no doubt, it will have a satisfactory end.”

While the reporters continued to fire questions at the men, a confident and smiling Regis Mathis walked away from the cameras, giving friendly waves as he got into the backseat of an expensive town car with a couple of his lawyers. A group that appeared to be his family, two younger men, a mature woman and a very young woman, entered the town car behind Mathis’s.

Preacher turned down the volume. Leslie sank onto a bar stool, looking pale.

“You all right?” Jack asked.

She turned dark liquid eyes up to his face. “He doesn’t look very worried.”

“Mr. Mathis has been to court before,” Brie said. “He knows how to act. Try not to worry. I know the district attorney. He’s a brilliant man.”

“Why isn’t there some kind of gag on him?” Leslie asked. “How can he be allowed to talk to the reporters about evidence that’s going to come up?”

“There’s more than one way to play that hand, Leslie. I don’t have any idea what the D.A.’s strategy is, but you can believe if he didn’t want to hear what Mathis has to say to the press, he’d find a way to gag him. You probably just heard part of his defense—old blood, forensic errors, maybe it was someone else driving his car, et cetera. That’s not to say there won’t be surprises, but…” The color wasn’t coming into her cheeks, so Brie said, “Jack, give her a drink.”

“Coming up.”

“Don’t panic yet,” Brie said.

Leslie took a sip of her wine. “When can I go ahead and panic?”

“I’ll give you a call when it’s time,” Brie said.

“Paul,” Leslie said. “I think I might have to take tomorrow off. Hang around the TV.”

“Want to watch at my house?” Brie asked. “I have good satellite reception.”

“I’d rather be home, near the phone, but my TV reception is iffy.”

“Call him tonight,” Brie said. “Tell him where you’ll be. Court doesn’t convene until 9:00 a.m., so don’t rush. Come when you can.”

“I’ll be there by nine.”

“Understandable,” Brie said.

Several hours later, when it was late, Leslie called Conner’s cell phone. He answered, “Hey, baby.”

“Conner, I can’t get you off my mind. And you didn’t call.”

He sighed. “I thought maybe I shouldn’t tonight. I’m testifying tomorrow morning.”

“Oh, Conner, why couldn’t you call? Did they ask you not to?”

“No, but I didn’t want to drag you into this drama. Les, I’m not coming back this weekend. I’m not going anyplace I can be followed until it’s all over. Until there’s no chance I’ll be recalled.”

“I understand. Conner, I saw him on TV. The man you’re testifying against. Talking to reporters.”

“I saw it, too,” he said. “Apparently I’m testifying against a sainted soul whom the police have been trying to trap for one reason or another for years....”

“Oh, Conner…”

“He’s convincing before he even opens his mouth,” Conner said. “And then he’s even more convincing. Max says we have to trust the system. He says there’s good, solid evidence. But they’re going to claim I couldn’t have seen his face.”

“But you did....”

“I did. He looked rumpled and messed up that night. He didn’t have that classy, sophisticated, starched look to him. He looked like a furious guy who didn’t have an ounce of guilt about what he’d done. He was covered with blood from moving the body. I’ll never forget it. And when he was walking back to his car…he moved slowly. Leisurely. Like the whole thing had been just another chore, like he was completely justified.”

“Conner…”

“He’s got a good game face,” Conner said. “I’m working on mine.”

“I hate that you’re going through this alone,” she said.

“Alone is the only way I want to get it done. I don’t want anyone I love even close to this mess. And it is a mess.”

“I’m staying home from work tomorrow, watching the news from Brie’s house because she has better reception than I do. So if you’re looking for me, that’s where I’ll be. And, well, if it means anything, I’m really proud of you.”

“It means everything, Les.” He paused. “I want you to get some sleep. We’ll talk tomorrow after it’s over.”





After Conner called Max and told him about Samantha’s veiled threat, the D.A. said that he’d already heard from the police officer escort, and, unfortunately, she was going to be taken into custody. “I just want to make it clear, Max, I’m sure she wasn’t acting on the behalf of the defense team. I’m sure that was meant to manipulate me. She’s been trying to reconcile with me for two years and I’ve been ignoring her.”

“Sadly for her, her motive isn’t an issue,” Max said.

Conner was told exactly what to wear to court—a light blue oxford button-down without a tie, and tan pants, pressed with a sharp crease. Brown shoes. Ordinary clothes on an ordinary guy. The irony was—he already had those clothes, and it was exactly what he would’ve chosen. Max, who was very well turned out, wanted him to look like a blue-collar kind of guy whom the jury would believe and empathize with.

Conner was a blue-collar guy. Since the crime and the fire, he’d had occasion to look over his net worth, trying to figure out what to do next, and while he had quite the nice nest egg to start over with, it wasn’t as though he had brilliantly built a fortune. He’d worked a business he’d inherited and had a pot of money from insurance—not his first choice of how to become financially sound. The sale of the lot and two houses would put him in a higher category, even after splitting it with Katie—but he couldn’t claim much of that came from his business prowess.

He did have some business savvy, however. He was giving more and more thought to a small hardware store in the area between Virgin River and the coast. He could get Paul and his subs anything they needed; he could provide building and repair items for the town and outlying areas. He might buy a motorcycle to take Leslie for long rides in spring and summer.

He hoped to God he’d get to the point of making some of those decisions soon. This hiatus for the sake of a testimony was getting old.

Today’s cop was Scott, a homicide detective getting a little overtime. They had room-service breakfast together in Conner’s room and made small talk. Scott was a sports nut, never missed a televised ball game. When breakfast was done, and it was time to head for the courthouse, Scott asked, “You doing okay, buddy?”

“Ready for this to be over,” Conner said. And then, for no particular reason, he said, “You know, I’ve been laying low in this small town, working construction, and after a lot of years of putting in too many hours, life slowed down a little. And I met someone. You married, Scott?”

“Eleven years,” he said. “Two kids.”

“I’m thirty-five,” Conner said. “I’d like to be able to say that someday.”

Scott clamped a hand on his shoulder. “It’ll be over soon. Let’s get going.”

“Today I don’t feel like sneaking in the back door,” Conner said.

“Anything you want, bud. Just don’t get caught by the reporters. I don’t know what Mathis’s game is, but you’re not to talk to anyone.”

“I know. I understand. I don’t want to talk to them. Ever. But Mathis had me threatened and my store burned down. I’m tired of letting him think he worries me. He walks in the front door, head up, no problem looking me in the eye. Fine. Game on.”

Scott gave him a little smile. “Good for you, bud.”

It didn’t take them long to arrive at the courthouse and park the car. They walked around the block and headed for the glut of people and cars out front. Conner marveled at how quickly he’d come to recognize some of the featured players. It was barely eight-thirty, and there were lots of people showing up for many court cases in addition to this big trial, but still he managed to spot the lawyers—prosecution and defense—hurrying into the building with briefcases. People he remembered from the gallery were either hanging around outside or quickly going inside—the brassy-looking women, the priests, men in expensive suits. There were the reporters, of course, easy to spot by their cameramen and camcorders and microphones. And of course there were a lot of uniformed and plainclothes police around, but as Conner had already learned, cops testified every day. The courthouse and area surrounding was full of them, coming and going.

Then the car service pulled up. Of course Regis Mathis and his high-priced attorneys and family couldn’t be expected to drive themselves to court—they arrived in three Lincolns driven by uniformed drivers. In case anyone had forgotten these people were rich and influential. The doors opened on the first two in the line, emitting Mathis and lawyers from the first, and behind them, the family.

Conner stopped on the sidewalk with Scott beside him. “No scene,” Scott said into his ear.

“Of course not,” Conner said. “Just watching the parade.”

“Stay out of the way of the reporters,” Scott said.

Conner vaguely noticed a white SUV blocking the street on the other side of the Lincolns, letting someone out.

Mathis stepped out of the car like arriving royalty, lifting his hand in a wave to the press. He and one of his lawyers waited for the family to meet them before they all made a grand entrance into the courthouse.

But they didn’t make it that far. One of the women Conner recognized from the day before was suddenly standing in front of them. Her back being to Conner and Scott, he didn’t know anything was happening. In one split second he wondered if the woman wanted to talk to Mathis.

And then there was the sound of gunfire. Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop. Mathis crumbled. His lawyer crumbled. One of his sons fell.

Scott pushed Conner to the ground and covered his body with his own, but Conner lifted his head to look out, to see what was happening. There was more gunfire and Conner wasn’t sure where it was coming from. Then next thing Conner knew, Scott moved enough for him to see the young woman was tackled by two very large, uniformed police officers, and immediately following that, there was a rush of people swarming the area. A couple of men ran to the SUV, but an officer, with gun extended toward the driver, blocked it from moving. That’s when he noticed that even though Scott was lying on top of him, he had his gun out, too, leveled in the direction of the shooting.

“Holy shit,” Scott muttered, pulling Conner roughly to his feet. While Conner instinctively started in the direction of the melee, Scott strong-armed him in the direction of the courthouse doors, wrestling him inside.

“What the hell?” Conner asked.

“Shooting,” he said. Scott pulled out his cell phone and plunked in some numbers. “415A in progress in front of the courthouse. Wounded. Looks like they might have one in custody. It’s a mess of people out there.” He leveled a steely gaze at Conner. “Do. Not. Move.”

Scott stepped out of the building, but only for a second. Then he was back. The sound of sirens seemed to accompany him.

“Did you get help?” Conner asked him.

He gave a nod. “There’s more help than we need out there. Every person with a cell phone on the courthouse steps or on the sidewalk called it in. Looks like they have the woman with the gun on the ground, disarmed. And there are a couple of guys who decided to get away, too, who are detained, but I have no idea if they’re part of this.”

Conner poked a finger in his chest. “You wearing a vest?”

“Not today. Not to court.”

“You covered me with your body!”

“Yeah, you lucky devil. It was instinct, that’s all. Let’s get you inside.” He pulled out his ID and escorted Conner through the metal detector. Scott showed his ID and badge and set off the alarms with his gun; the guards and marshals gave him a lot of attention before they passed him through. And then he took Conner not to the courtroom, but to the room where the A.D.A. met witnesses.

And there they sat.

Conner was in a state of shock for a good fifteen minutes before he finally said, “I thought if anyone got shot going up the courthouse steps, it would be me.”