Her stomach clenched. She’d seen him once in court eight or nine months ago. He’d testified in a drug case and though his hair had been long and his beard thick, the eyes held the same intensity as the man edging the crowd. The Deke in her memory had a Tennessee drawl, adding a quiet authority the jury did not ignore. After he’d testified he’d returned to the gallery and remained in his chair, stoic and watching.
Now his gaze skimmed her meager crowd, studying them until he seemed satisfied that this group was not driven enough to pose a threat. His gaze settled on her.
Rachel drew in a breath, wishing she could cross now and ask him about her DNA results. But as the idea formed, the news crews turned on their spotlights and shone them in her direction. Now was the time to make her point. Now was not the time to argue with Detective Morgan. She smiled at him, nodded, and then dropped her gaze to her notes as if he did not matter.
At exactly six fifteen, as the sun set, she stood on the curb, lifted the microphone to her mouth, moistened her lips, and began to tell the story of Jeb Jones.
The crowd grew quiet and news cameras rolled. Several times she paused to gather her thoughts, which kept trying to skitter ahead. More people stopped to listen and the flicker of the candles in the crowd grew brighter.
She could see disinterested faces grow solemn as the impact of her words settled. Passersby stopped to listen. “He deserves to have the DNA test.”
When she finished, the reporter, a woman with a tall lean build emphasized by a red body-slimming dress, moved to the front of the crowd and held out her microphone. A closer look revealed the woman was well into her fifties. “So do you blame the Nashville Police Department for a possible miscarriage of justice?”
“I can’t speak to what happened thirty years ago. I can only talk about now. And today the Nashville Police Department has DNA evidence from the Dawson murder trial. They’ve yet to respond to my requests for retesting and my fear is that the test will be forgotten or worse, swept under the rug and my client will die in prison.”
A murmur rumbled through the crowd. More hands shot up.
“What can we do?” Colleen shouted as if she too were part of the crowd.
“Call the police department. Call your councilman. Let them know that Jeb Jones deserves to be heard.”
A rumble washed over the crowd and she had the sense she might be winning. She looked into the camera. “Jeb Jones has been in jail for thirty years. He’s old and he’s sick. His time for justice is running out and we have to act.”
More rumbles. She was making headway. This might work.
“What about Annie Rivers Dawson? The victim!” The angry voice shot out from the edges of the crowd.
Rachel studied the cluster of people and settled on a woman dressed in a dark, loose-fitting dress who stepped forward. She wore her dark hair in a bun and no makeup adorned her pale angled face.
Rachel had thought someone might remember Annie and had prepared comments. “My focus today is on Jeb Jones. He’s been a victim of the system for thirty years.”
“Annie Rivers Dawson is dead.” The woman moved forward clutching a well-worn purse close, and moving to within feet of Rachel.
The reporter and her cameraman had also moved in closer. If Rachel dodged this woman or her question, it wouldn’t play well. The eyes of Nashville were upon them.
“Annie deserves to have her real killer behind bars,” Rachel said.
“Her real killer is behind bars.” Despite a mousy demeanor, the woman’s voice reverberated with fierce anger.
“Her death was tragic,” Rachel said. “I’ve never denied that.”
The woman fished an eight-by-ten picture out of her large purse. The image was a publicity shot of a young smiling woman and Rachel recognized Annie Rivers Dawson’s face immediately. Annie had had long blond hair that billowed around a face with the perfect blend of porcelain skin, a high swipe of cheekbones, and smiling full lips that added a joyous spark to bright blue eyes. “She was a talented beautiful new mother and she was brutally beaten. Her house was covered in blood and her body was found in pieces because of your client!”
Anxiety singed Rachel’s skin leaving her cheeks flushed. “Annie’s death was a great loss. Tragic. But the police never adequately proved that my client was involved in her death.”
“The murder weapon was found in his car!” Her voice had grown louder and her face flushed with anger. “How can you stand there and defend that human piece of garbage?”
Aware of the crowd’s intense interest, she clung to her control with an iron grip as she lowered her microphone. “This vigil is about Jeb and his right to have the DNA testing.”
“His right!” The woman advanced a step. “What rights did Annie have? She had the right to live and raise her baby but those rights were stolen from her by Jeb Jones.”
“The DNA—”
“The cops found lots of evidence against him, including witnesses who said he stalked her!” she shrieked.
“He concedes that.”
“Of course.” Her voice had grown louder and sharpened with a dramatic edge as she now played to the crowd. “Poor murderer. He’s the victim.” She spit on the ground. “The media loves to focus on the perpetrator. They always forget the victim silenced by death.”
Rachel stepped off the curb and moved toward the woman. Her hope was to calm her and dial down the energy in their conversation. Later they could talk in private. “I haven’t forgotten about Annie.”
“You might remember her, but you don’t care about her. All you care about is him.” The woman’s fingers fisted around the edge of the picture so tightly, her knuckles turned white.
“What if Jeb didn’t kill Annie?” Rachel reasoned. “Have you ever considered that the real killer is still out there and perhaps killing other women?”
The woman shook her head, her gaze zeroed in on Rachel. “The real killer is not out there. He is rotting behind bars as he should be.”
Rachel searched the woman’s face trying to identify her. She’d read what files she could get a hold of but she couldn’t place this woman. “You knew Annie.”
Thin lips flattened. “I knew her.”
“How?”
Unshed tears magnified the anger glittering from the woman’s eyes. “She was my sister!”
The crowd hushed and Rachel was aware of the cameras rolling. “I’m sorry for your loss. What is your name?”
“Margaret Miller,” she said, teeth clenched.
She’d known Annie’s sister still lived in the area but she’d been unable to find her. She’d distributed hundreds of flyers about the vigil so it made sense that word would reach Margaret. “Ms. Miller, why don’t we have this conversation in private.”
“Why talk in private?” Angry laughter bubbled. “You picked this public place to make your plea so why shouldn’t we have our discussion in public? You hate secrets, right, Ms. Wainwright? Let’s have it out right here.”
“I do hate secrets.” This entire conversation was going sideways. “Ms. Miller, please know that I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Don’t tell me you are sorry when all you want to do is free her killer.”
“All I want is for Jeb to have his DNA tested.” And in a louder voice she said, “DNA testing did not exist thirty years ago.”