High in Trial

ELEVEN

Six hours, thirty minutes before the shooting





Miss Meg’s Diner opened at six a.m. for breakfast, and on weekday mornings that was when everybody showed up: construction workers who had to be at the job site by seven, out-of-town workers who had a long commute, doctors and lawyers and insurance agents who opened their offices at eight but liked to see and be seen and didn’t want to miss out on anything that was going on. On Saturday mornings, Miss Meg’s diner was the place where the men of the town gathered between six and nine a.m. to solve the problems of the world, the country, the county, and their own home town. More than one mayor had been elected here before he was even nominated and county commissioners quietly relieved of office before the scandal broke. There was a lot of loud talk about what the President should do, what was really wrong with this country, how to fix the economy once and for all, and who they really needed up on Capitol Hill. Meantime, deals were quietly made under the table and contracts illegally awarded and nobody said much about it because, after all, they were all friends here.

Hands went up and friendly greetings were called out when Buck came in just before seven, and he returned them in his usual easy fashion. He liked to hang out at the diner with the morning crowd when he got a chance; it was the best way to keep up with what was really going on around town. The trouble was that he rarely got a chance anymore, and today was no different. This was business.

Don Kramer Jr., Attorney At Law, was due in Saturday court at eight but had a vague memory of the Berman case and agreed to meet Buck for breakfast. Don Jr., as most people called him, bore such a striking resemblance to his father—right down to the horn-rimmed glasses, center-parted hair, and red bowtie—that it was almost impossible not to do a double take when they entered a room together. Even when they were separate, it was easy to mistake one for the other, and Buck often had to look carefully before he began discussing with one law partner a case that actually belonged to the other.

Don Jr. was sitting alone at a table for two, his briefcase on the floor beside him, the remnants of a breakfast that had consisted of half a grapefruit, whole-wheat toast, and oatmeal before him. “I glanced back over the case file while I was waiting,” he said without preamble when Buck was seated, “to refresh my memory. What was it in particular that you wanted to know?”

Buck glanced around, hoping to catch the eye of a waitress with a coffee pot. “Well, for starters,” Buck said, “Berman claimed he was innocent right up until the trial. What made him do an about-face and take a deal that ended up costing him more time than he would’ve done if he’d copped to all three of the charges he was arrested on, plus trafficking and hit and run?”

“He didn’t have much choice, I’m afraid. Frankly, after we lost our strongest evidence I’m surprised the prosecutor even offered a deal. He could’ve been looking at the death penalty.”

“What evidence?”

A harried waitress finally discovered Buck’s empty coffee mug and filled it with an absent smile before edging her way through the crowd of tables to attend another customer.

“The forensics report on his truck, the one he claimed was involved in a collision with another vehicle at the time of the shooting.”

“I was wondering about that. What happened to it?”

“It disappeared.”

Buck’s brow knotted briefly as he sipped his coffee. “Did you subpoena the arresting officer in Georgia? He could have testified to the banged-up front fender, at least. It was in his initial report.”

“I did.” Don Jr. picked up a remaining corner of toast, buttered it neatly, and popped it into his mouth. He chewed and swallowed before finishing, “The judge disallowed testimony about the condition of the defendant’s vehicle at the time of his arrest.”

Now Buck was surprised. “Oh yeah? How come?”

The other man pursed his lips thoughtfully. “I believe it had something to do with weather conditions, unreliable evidence… It really didn’t make much difference because without his pickup truck, or at least a forensics report, I didn’t even know what I was looking for.”

“You were looking,” Buck informed him, “for yellow paint from the gas pump pylon that would definitively place him at the scene of the crime. Anything else would’ve corroborated his story, or at least given you reasonable doubt.”

The blank look in the other man’s eyes told Buck that, either that hadn’t been part of the defense plan, or Don Jr. didn’t remember the case as well as he had indicated.

“What about the other car?” Buck persisted. “What kind of attempt did you make to find it?”

“The usual. Repair shops, emergency rooms. But it was a bad winter and there were a lot of fender benders, if I recall. With no one willing to come forward about a hit and run, it was a dead end.”

“Any description of the driver?”

“My notes say the defendant claimed a woman was driving with a man in the car, but that’s about it. He didn’t get a good look at the driver but swore up and down he’d recognize the passenger if he saw him again. He gave us a description of the man, but it was pretty general. There’s no denying he was under the influence at the time. He would’ve hung himself on the stand, and if you ask me, the judge did him a favor.”

“What do you mean, by letting him plead to second?”

Don Jr. took a final sip of his coffee, blotted his lips neatly, and shook his head. “He did more than that. The judge was the one who came up with the deal. He called Gill–Gilly Rogers, he’s the one who prosecuted the case, may he rest in peace—Gill and me into his chambers and told us he wasn’t allowing the arresting officer to testify about the truck and that I’d have to build my case on the testimony of the defendant, which, as we all knew, would be a waste of taxpayer’s money. So he strongly suggested we reach an agreement and came up with one he’d approve. I guess you never got to work with the judge, but he used to do things like that, informally, always working to be fair to everybody. It sure did make the practice of law a lot easier back then, I’ll tell you that.” And he smiled mirthlessly. “Of course, our billable hours weren’t nearly as high as they are now, either.”

Buck sipped his coffee thoughtfully. “You said you didn’t have Berman’s truck for evidence. What happened to it?”

A look that was part rueful, part puzzled crossed Don Jr.’s face, and he gave a small shake of his head. “Talk about your crazy snafus. Somebody screwed up and forgot to tag it as evidence. It went up for auction before the trial, can you believe that?”

Buck raised an eyebrow. “I’m no lawyer, but that sounds like grounds for a mistrial to me.”

“If we had gone to trial,” agreed Don Jr., “I would’ve argued that being able to examine the truck was essential to our defense and I would’ve moved for a mistrial. But we never got that far. In fact, I didn’t get the notice that the truck had been mistagged until a month or so after we’d struck the deal. You know how it is, trying to deal with those Georgia boys.”

Buck gave a noncommittal shrug.

“I told the kid we wouldn’t have a chance if we went to a jury, and that was the truth. Still, it took me right up to the wire to convince him to the take the plea. The ungrateful little punk kept going on about being framed, about the judge being out to get him, the cops stealing his truck…”

“Framed?” Buck said. “By who?”

Don Jr. shrugged. “He never got that specific. You know how it goes. I suspect the drugs had made him paranoid by then, among other things. Like I said, he was a cocky son of a gun, the kind that will spend his life blaming everyone but himself for his problems.”

“So he took the deal, but he didn’t like it, even though the judge was going out of his way to cut him some slack.”

“He didn’t see it that way. He said he was innocent.” Don Jr. finished his coffee. “They all say they’re innocent.”

Buck asked, “Did he ever make any threats? Against you or anybody else involved with the case?”

The attorney seemed surprised. “Defendants rarely threaten their attorneys, Sheriff. It tends to weaken their chances in court.” He thought for a moment. “No, I don’t recall him threatening anyone in particular. Just the usual—he was being framed and somebody was going to pay, that kind of thing.” He hesitated. “There was one thing. He asked to see me a couple of years after he was sent up. He said he had new evidence and wanted to reopen the case, but he wouldn’t even tell me what it was unless I could make sure to move the trial to another county. I explained to him it didn’t work that way, and I never heard from him again.” He picked up his briefcase and stood. “I’ve got to get to the courthouse, Sheriff. Anything else?”

Buck shook his head absently. “No. Thanks, Don.” Then he turned in his seat. “Say, Don.”

The attorney looked back.

Buck said, “So you think if you’d gone to trial the jury would’ve brought back a murder one verdict, right?”

“No doubt about it. Local crime, local witnesses, local man dead… no doubt about it.”

“Judge Stockton never was known to be soft on crime. Why do you suppose he pushed the deal?”

Don Jr. frowned a little. “I wondered about that myself at the time. The only thing I can figure is that he wanted the fellow off the streets and didn’t want to go to trial.”

Buck murmured, “I wonder why.”

He shrugged. “I guess we’ll never know, will we? Have a good day, Sheriff.”



* * *



“Are you sure that’s the right dog?” Miles said. “They all look the same to me.”

I couldn’t help slanting him an exasperated look. “Of course they do.” But, in fact, he did have a point. If it hadn’t been for the bright yellow flames embroidered on her leash, I wouldn’t have recognized her either, and I’d still had to check the ID tag on her collar to make certain. Not that it mattered. Whether it was an agility star or a house pet, a lost dog was top priority.

We’d waited for some time, listening for the sound of a frantic owner calling her dog, and then walked across the field, expecting Marcie to come running up at any moment. As the minutes went by and more people came out into the parking lot or crossed into the field to walk their dogs, I asked if anyone had seen Marcie, but no one had. Worse, no one knew what room she was in.

“She must have given up and gone back to her room,” Miles said. “You should have the front desk call her.”

If I’d lost Cisco in an open field next to a strange hotel far from home, I couldn’t imagine just giving up and going back to my room. But it was getting late, and Cisco was competing in the first event, and I didn’t know what else to do. “Yeah, okay,” I said. “I guess so. They can at least leave a message for her if she’s still out looking. Go on to breakfast. I’ll meet you there.”

“Do you want me to take Cisco to the room?”

Cisco was over the excitement of the new dog and was once again sniffing the grassy field, pausing to look up with pricked ears and happy eyes every time a car door slammed in the parking lot or another dog headed excitedly in our direction, pulling its owner behind. Flame, with the energy-conserving good sense of most border collies, lay down at my feet, waiting for what was going to happen next.

“No, I’ll do it.” I didn’t want to give Cisco his breakfast until after he’d completed his first run, and Miles was notorious for sneaking him treats.

Miles nodded toward Flame. “What are you going to do with that one?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted. I clucked my tongue to both dogs, pulling Cisco into heel as we started back across the field toward the parking lot. “I guess I can take her with me to the trial and leave her in the car until Marcie gets there. It shouldn’t be very long before she gets the message. I’ll leave my cell phone number too.”

I glanced at my watch and noticed to my dismay that it was almost seven. “Uh-oh,” I said. “I don’t think I have time for breakfast.” I turned a beseeching look on Miles. “Would you do me a huge favor and grab a couple of pastries to go from the breakfast bar? And more coffee.”

He gave me a look filled with forbearance. “I could be having eggs Benedict watching the sun rise over the ocean right now. So glad I cancelled my meeting.”

“And bacon,” I added, struggling to keep both dogs under a reasonable semblance of control. “For training treats. Hey!” I stopped dead and glared at the dogs, both of whom were straining and pulling at their leashes, eyes fixed upon the thick copse of woods that separated the field from the highway, having apparently caught the scent of a rabbit or a squirrel. “Cisco, watch me!”

Usually that tone of voice, which I admit shouldn’t be used in crowded rooms or after midnight in public places, is enough to bring Cisco to a screeching halt and cause any other dog to snap to attention. In fact, Flame did whip her head around to look at me, her ears going down guiltily. Cisco fixed his gaze on the wood line and barked.

I gave the leash a quick sharp tug, just to get his attention, and finally he looked at me. “Cisco, heel!”

He looked at the trees and back at me with an expression that suggested he thought he might have misunderstood. Flame whined. I said firmly, “Wrong.” And tugged the leash again. Reluctantly, Cisco came to heel.

“Maybe if you’d mentioned the bacon,” Miles murmured.

“I’ll meet you at the car,” I told him.

He went right and I went left, and as we crossed the parking lot toward the office, it took all my focus to keep the dogs’ attention on me rather than the steady stream of canines headed out for their morning walk. As we came under the portico, I heard someone call hello, and I turned to see Aggie and Ginny with Gunny coming toward us. I waited for them.

Gunny was a gorgeous, high-stepping golden retriever who looked happy to greet the world this morning, and Cisco was equally as happy to greet him. This was where all of our Canine Good Citizen training came in handy, and we had plenty, since Cisco had failed the CGC test twice. Flame was no problem, tucking herself into a shy sit and half hiding behind my legs, but Cisco could barely contain himself, licking his lips and pounding his tail on the concrete, until Ginny and Gunny reached us and I gave him a quiet “say hello” command.

“He has such good manners!” exclaimed Ginny, and I managed not to roll my eyes as I watched the two dogs sniff and circle each other.

Aggie was only a few steps behind. “Who is that you have there?”

“It’s Flame,” I told her. “We found her running loose this morning. Have either of you seen Marcie? She must be going crazy with worry.”

Ginny shook her head and spoke softly to Flame as she reached to pet her. “Poor thing. She’s a mess.”

Aggie pursed her lips. “I know it’s not nice to say, but don’t you think it’s a little strange, almost tit for tat, that after Neil’s dog got loose yesterday it should be Flame who’s running around loose this morning?”

Of course I did, but it wasn’t nice to say. I said, “You don’t happen to know what room she’s in, do you?”

Aggie shook her head, and Ginny straightened up from petting Flame. “I wonder if that was Bryte we heard barking this morning. If she went out looking for Flame, she could have left Bryte in the room alone.”

“It sounded like it was on the other side of the building, though,” Aggie said. “I didn’t hear it when we came out just now.”

I said, “I’m just going to run in and ask the front desk to ring her room. Do you mind holding Flame for me?” I passed the leash to Aggie, and Gunny lost interest in Cisco and began sniffing Flame. Flame, who’d had a hard morning, lifted a corner of her lip in warning. Aggie took a step backward, nudging Flame out of range, and Ginny did the same with Gunny. I love being around professional dog people. “I’ll just be a minute,” I said. “Cisco, with me.”

Cisco got his share of oohs and ahhs from the few non-dog people who were in the lobby and indulgent smiles from the other competitors who were walking through with their cups of coffee on the way to the trial site. He was awfully cute, I had to admit, now that he was out of the path of distraction and had nothing to think about but walking in perfect heel position with his head held high, his coat shimmering, and a winning grin on his face. Somebody said, “He looks just like that dog in the television commercial!” and I wanted to reply, “Which one?” Because as the whole of Madison Avenue knows, if you want to sell anything from a car to underwear, all you have to do is get a good shot of a golden retriever in the ad.

The only person who didn’t look happy to see us was the desk clerk, and I remembered too late that the hotel had a policy about dogs in the lobby. However, her disapproving scowl immediately evaporated when I introduced myself and she typed in my room number.

“Oh, Miss Stockton, I hope everything is okay this morning,” she said. “The night manager left a message that you were not to be disturbed, but she wanted you to know that the hotel is thoroughly investigating your complaint, and the head of security will be happy to sit down and talk with you whenever you wish.”

I wasn’t entirely sure what “thoroughly investigating my complaint” consisted of, but I appreciated the gesture. And since all’s well that ends well, I said, “I may take you up on that later, but right now I was hoping you could ring a guest’s room for me. She’s lost her dog and I want her to know I’ve found it. Her name is Marcie Wilbanks.”

Once again the desk clerk tapped a rapid series of keys. “I’ll be happy to do that, Miss Stockton, but we’ve already left several messages. We had some complaints about her dog barking during the night. I don’t think she’s in her room.”

Nonetheless, she picked up the receiver, dialed the number, and waited politely while it rang. Eventually, she gave me an apologetic shrug and hung up. “If you’d like to leave a message, I’ll be sure she gets it.”

She gave me a pad and paper, and I wrote my name, room number, and cell phone on it, along with a brief message telling her I was taking Flame with me to the trial site and she could pick her up at our campsite in the livestock barn. I wished it had turned out differently, though. I didn’t like to be responsible for someone else’s dog when I already had my hands full with Cisco, especially considering the way Neil acted yesterday. He was just as likely to accuse me of stealing the dog as to thank me for rescuing her.

When I left the office and didn’t find Ginny and Aggie waiting outside with Flame, I was at first relieved. Marcie must have returned, after all, and the runaway dog was no longer my problem. I should’ve known better, particularly when the first thing Cisco did upon leaving the building was swivel his head toward the left and stop so abruptly I almost tripped over him. When I looked around I saw several people with dogs were gathered at the edge of the parking lot. Aggie and Ginny were among them. Flame was not.

“I was going to put her in the back of our van,” Aggie said with a shake of her head, “while we loaded the cooler and crate, and she slipped her collar. She took off toward the woods like a crazy thing.”

Sarah was there with Brinkley. “At least she’s not running through the brush with a lead on. It’s a wonder she didn’t choke herself the first time.”

“Someone should call Neil,” someone else said. “After all, it’s his dog. Partly, anyway. Does anyone have his number?”

“The trial secretary might,” said Ginny. “She’s already at the site, though, setting up.” She glanced at her mother. “We should get going, too.”

And even as I started to quickly agree that yes, someone should definitely call Neil—that was exactly what someone should do, because Cisco and I were entered in the first event of the morning and we had to leave within the next fifteen minutes if we were to have any chance of warming up before the run—I felt my heart sink to my toes. Brinkley stood less than five feet from Cisco, yet Cisco was completely ignoring him. Cisco sniffed the ground, and then the air, his tail up, his expression intense, his whole body leaning toward the wood line. He was working, and not even Brinkley could tempt him away from his quarry.

Resignedly, I held out my hand for Flame’s leash. “I think Cisco can track her. We can try, anyway. If we find her I’ll bring her with me to the trial.”

Aggie and I exchanged cell phone numbers so that we could keep in touch about Marcie, and she promised to call me if she was able to find out how to reach Neil. I looped the leash around my neck and released the brake on Cisco’s expandable leash. I brushed the ground with my fingers. “Cisco, track.”

The ground was still damp enough to hold a strong scent and Cisco took off eagerly. I had to trot to keep up for the first few dozen yards, which was okay because that would probably be the only warm-up either of us would have that day, assuming we even made it in time for our first run. As we reached the part of the field where other dogs had crossed, however, Cisco slowed down, taking his time to distinguish between older and more recent scent trails. I pulled out my phone and dialed Miles.

“You’re late,” he answered.

“Sorry.” I was still breathing hard from the run. “A slight delay.”

“Are you okay? You sound winded.”

“I am. The dog got away again.”

“Then you won’t mind if I eat your bear claw.”

“Miles,” I said, “you don’t have to stay. You should go back to your meeting. My schedule is all screwed up anyway and there’s no point in you coming out to the fairgrounds again today. You should go do your thing and I’ll see you tonight.”

“Are you trying to get rid of me?”

“Kind of. I feel bad about making you drive back this morning.”

We’d reached the far end of the field and Cisco, twenty feet ahead, plowed into the brush. Shielding my face against flapping branches with my arm, I gamely followed him.

“You didn’t make me do anything. But that does remind me. What’s the story with the random creep playing games?”

“Hold on,” I said.

“No chance. I’m not going anywhere until…”

I took the phone away from my ear and concentrated on keeping my balance as I struggled after Cisco through the piney woods and undergrowth. I thought I heard a scuffling in the distance and a movement in the undergrowth. I called out, just in case, “Marcie?” There was no reply, so I tried instead, “Flame! Here, girl!”

I heard a muffled voice from the phone in my hand and I spoke into it. “Seriously, Miles. Hold on. I think I’ve got her.”

He said something, but it was drowned out by the sound of Cisco’s sharp bark. The leash had gone slack in my hand.

“Weird,” I murmured. Cisco had been trained to sit and bark when he found his search object, but the search object was generally static—an injured victim or an inanimate object. A runaway border collie wasn’t the kind of target he would give the “find” signal for, unless… unless the dog was injured and unable to move. “Oh, no,” I said and started to run.

“Where are you?” Miles demanded. “I’m coming that way.”

My breath hissed and gasped into the receiver as I clambered over fallen saplings and broken rocks to where Cisco, half-disguised by the shadow of foliage, sat and barked again. I managed, “Wait, it’s okay.” And then I sucked in my breath, stumbling to a stop.

“Oh God,” I whispered.

“Raine? Raine, are you okay?”

I couldn’t answer. Cisco was sitting, as he’d been trained to do, looking anxious and alert beside Flame. Flame was lying down, head between her paws, staring fixedly at something half-concealed in the undergrowth. That something was a woman’s leg.

I moved slowly forward, one step and two, and then sank to my knees when they would no longer support me. For the longest time all I could do was stare at the Golden Retriever Club of America sweatshirt, streaked with blood and loamy earth, matted with crushed leaves. Gently, I reached forward and pushed a clump of tangled hair away from a face that was so swollen and disfigured it was barely recognizable. I felt for a pulse with shaking fingers but knew already it was pointless.

“Miles,” I said hoarsely, “hang up and call 9-1-1. It’s Marcie. I think… I think she’s dead.”

~*~