The Plinko Bounce, page 5
“I’m not allowed to share my conversations with Mr. Bullins,” Andy replied. He hinted at a smile. “I learned that rule in my William and Mary attorney-client-privilege training. You know I’m not suggesting you did anything intentional or underhanded.” He gave her the statement. “See for yourself, Stephanie.”
She studied the first page, then rolled the papers into a tube. “Interesting,” she said cryptically.
“We both understand this is important. I have to file a motion to suppress. If you lose the confession, then your case is no longer a slam-dunk. You have no obvious motive, no direct evidence, and some blood splatter on the defendant’s pants. Her husband had even more blood on him—”
“Yeah, because he knelt hoping to help his murdered wife, then cradled her body while he wept and prayed to God.”
“Just saying.” Andy shrugged. “A jury won’t learn about Damian’s past and dreadful, violent record unless he’s found guilty. Far as they’ll know, he was a guy Cole Benson trusted enough to hire and bring to his property.”
Katt unrolled the confession and returned it. Andy noticed her bracelet, crowded with charms celebrating her kids and family. “Damian walks in the Benson home, doesn’t knock, has no reason to be there, no invitation or work project, then he hurries out minutes later with her blood on his pants. They’re the only two people in the house, and she’s dead. He’s going to suggest what as a defense? She cut her own throat? Aliens? A vampire? The Invisible Man?”
“Motive, Stephanie? Why’d he do it? You’ll lose his gin-and-meth admission. The jury won’t know he was crazed on a Schedule Two. That’s a big hit for the commonwealth.”
“I’m confident they’ll have all the explanation they need once they see the pictures of the bloodbath he left in the kitchen.”
“Never know,” Andy replied. “But at a minimum, we certainly have legit, impactful issues we didn’t have last week.”
“True,” she agreed. “Which brings us to where we started. I’m going to withdraw and let the court appoint a special prosecutor. Especially with this wrinkle. This isn’t simply a guilty plea any longer. I’m sure the confession will become a bargaining chip, and we might even end up trying the case.”
“Damn, I wish you wouldn’t. Can I change your mind?”
“I wish I didn’t have to,” Katt said, her voice and expression impassive.
“At least please find us a quality replacement,” Andy urged her. “Dawn Futrell? Cliff Hapgood? I can work with Brett Nester.”
“The problem, Andy, is there aren’t a lot of volunteers for the gig. My colleagues aren’t waiting in line behind the velvet rope, eager to take on a nasty murder case in addition to their own busy dockets. Pete Morley owes me a favor. We were law-school classmates, and I did a manslaughter case for him in 2017. I’ll ask him.”
“Peter-frigging-Morley? Seriously, Stephanie? Come on?”
“Seriously,” she said.
“Thanks,” Andy groused. “No need to waste time; might as well dive straight to the bottom of the barrel.”
•••
Later, after a plate lunch at Checkered Pig, Andy tried a misdemeanor case in Henry County General District Court, then went to his office to meet with a series of clients, nine appointments scheduled over two hours. Probably three people would actually appear, and at least one of them would be so high that the conversation would be a waste of time, jibber-jabber and non sequiturs.
At four o’clock, following the expected streak of no-shows, Andy interviewed his first defendant, a timid young girl, Hannah, who, coached and prodded by her shiftless, felon “boyfriend,” had embezzled cash from Food Lion, every penny of which she’d handed over to her Romeo. She was a shy, awkward eighteen-year-old, an honors student, only nine days an adult when she stole, and this had been her first-ever romance. She and her parents arrived on time, all three Sunday-best dressed, and Andy was touched by her story, and he vowed—his voice sincere, reassuring—he’d battle to keep her record clean and see that she received a second chance. She and her mom wept, and Andy accompanied them to the exit, gave them his cell number, encouraged them not to fret, and reminded them to begin saving a few dollars so they’d have restitution for the grocery store.
“You’re still a big softie, Andy,” Cindy said from the front desk. “We’ll really miss you.”
“Ah, word travels fast,” he said, staring out the door, watching the family walk to their dinged minivan, the mom and daughter holding hands. “Poor girl. Why is it the most likable kids usually wind up with the short end of the judicial stick?”
“She’s lucky she landed with you.” Cindy held a pink phone message in his direction. “You know a Jerry Fain? He called, said he thinks he has your dog.” She squinted at him. “I didn’t realize you had a dog. I thought Rufus died.”
“Oh, great, thank goodness. Jerry lives on my road, about a mile away as the crow flies. Nice guy. I had a dog—for less than a day—before he ran off last night. I posted a piece on Facebook and tagged everyone here—you didn’t see it?”
“I haven’t even had a chance to open the mail yet,” she replied. “And I quit lookin’ at Facebook months ago. It brings out the worst in the worst people. It’s nothing but a bunch of loudmouths who can’t spell ‘cat’ and have no manners and too much free time.” She handed him the message.
Andy phoned immediately, standing there in the reception area, and Jerry Fain answered, jolly as always. “I hear you lost a dog,” Fain declared as soon as he recognized Andy’s voice.
“I did. Blue heeler mix.”
“Well, I think he’s here vacationing with us,” Fain said. “He was in the pasture this morning, havin’ a go at my donkeys, chasin’ ’em and nippin’ and barkin’. Heard he was missin’ on the radio.”
“Oh, Jerry, man, I’m sorry. His owner died, and he was hanging around the jail in Stuart, so I adopted him. The scoundrel tore out my porch screen in the middle of the night and went wandering. I hope he didn’t hurt your animals.”
“Nah, they had him outnumbered, and they were just playin’, having fun as best I could tell. They’re buddy-buddy now, nappin’ in the shade together.”
“I’ll be there no later than six,” Andy assured him. “I hate to ask, but do you think you could tie him or trap him in a stall so he doesn’t go AWOL again? I’d appreciate it.”
No other clients came to discuss their cases, so Andy collected Patches a few minutes after five thirty. The dog recognized him and barked and spun an ecstatic circle and shot to the end of his baling-twine tether. Andy thanked his neighbor, apologized for the trouble, and loaded Patches into the Jeep. The dog had a clear conscience about his travels, seemed unburdened, and as they left the Fain driveway, he almost knocked the Wrangler out of gear when he lunged to lick Andy’s face and tried to worm and wiggle into the driver’s seat beside him. He stank terribly because he’d rolled and frolicked in donkey shit, and there was a dried black smear on his side, but dry or not, some of the manure rubbed off on Andy’s white dress shirt, another aggravation.
CHAPTER FOUR
The morning was gray and damp when Andy arrived at his office on July 22, a scrubbed Patches leashed and obedient, cordial with every human he met, a friend to all. As man and dog were making their way to the breakroom’s coffee pot, Curtis Matthews turned a corner in a rush, a file in one hand, a necktie in the other, a yellow stain on his shirt, his blazer missing a gold filigreed front button.
“I’ll be damned,” Curtis exclaimed. “Is that Patches, the Canine Prince of Patrick County?” He stopped, briefly petted the dog. “Here, hold my file,” he instructed Andy.
“Certainly, Boy Wonder. Will you require the Batmobile as well?”
Curtis began a hasty Windsor knot that finished with the tie out of whack, the narrow end three inches past the wide end. “Close enough,” he announced. “Late for a bond hearing. Most hick lawyers receive a goat or chickens or sourwood honey or maybe a bushel of corn for payment. How’d you score a Reliable’s savant pup?”
“His owner died,” Andy answered.
“Huh,” Curtis replied, taking the file from Andy. “Hadn’t heard about Zeb. Not crazy surprising, though. Last time I represented him, the poor sap was riding the opioid train—rare for his gang. They’re usually just hall-of-fame alcoholics.” He adjusted the slapdash knot. “Catch you later, Andy,” he said as he was leaving. “We’ll discuss why you can’t resign.”
“Hey, Curtis.” Andy raised his voice. “See if your cousin who works for Fulton Brothers will bring his mini-excavator and dig a trench for me. I need a dog fence, the electric variety. So far, my free pet is in line to cost me around five hundred bucks, not to mention the lost sleep and today’s babysitting responsibilities.”
“Consider it done, amigo,” Curtis said over his shoulder, almost at the exit.
A few minutes later, Andy was drinking black coffee at his desk and answering emails, and his phone buzzed, and Cindy informed him, her voice hushed, that a woman was waiting in the lobby and wanted to see him about the Bullins case. “It’s his girlfriend,” she whispered.
“Okay,” Andy replied. “Bring her back, but remind her I have to be in court at nine-forty-five.”
“Warning,” Cindy said, continuing to whisper. “Live wire.”
Misty Dawn Pack was hardscrabble bony, inked on both arms, her front tooth chipped. She wore a black bra underneath a thin pink tank top. Her jeans were soiled and threadbare in the knees. She plowed through the door, flopped down in a chair without any kind of introduction or greeting or small talk, and started her torrential spiel, anxious and high-strung. Behind her, Cindy mimicked a needle injection and mouthed “crazy.”
“So, Mr. Hughes,” she said, her sandals in the seat, her arms encircling her shins, “I’m Damian’s fiancée, and I really, really, really need to tell you some important information which you don’t know. About Damian, who’s a good man. Very important, but you ain’t heard none of it yet.”
“Well, I’m eager to learn anything that might benefit my client.” Andy was calm, polite. He’d seen this show before.
“There’s more to the case than people are seein’.”
“What do you want to tell me?” Andy flipped pages in a legal pad until he found a clean sheet. He took a ballpoint from his drawer. “I’m ready.”
“Damian ain’t the man people think he is. He’s changed. Before all this, he was goin’ to his drug classes and meetin’ his probation officer regular, like he was supposed to. He was a great daddy to my kids, Montana and Harley. We call Harley ‘Peanut.’ He misses Damian so much. His own dad is in the penitentiary. It’s gonna destroy him if we lose Damian. He already has special classes at school, and…yeah…that’s something else I need a lawyer to look into, the—”
Andy cut her off. “If you’re willing, and if we get to that point, I might call you as a witness to help Damian with sentencing. Can’t do much for Peanut. Sorry. I only practice criminal law.”
“I don’t think Damian’s guilty, Mr. Hughes. I think he’s a fall guy. I know him better than anybody. I love him, and he loves me. He was workin’ steady, helpin’ me pay the bills. This is not even possible for him. Trust me. He couldn’t kill this lady. Could not. He was not usin’ no drugs! I’ll take a hundred lie-detector tests. He’s been clean for months. Both of us have.”
“Do you have any specific evidence or facts or information?” Andy was patient. His tone was pleasant and professional. “I appreciate your opinion and your vouching for Damian, but we need facts for court.”
She balled herself tighter in the chair. “Just what’s in my heart,” she said defiantly. “I know Damian Bullins better than anybody in the world, and I’m positive he didn’t do this. Why ain’t those facts?”
Andy dropped the pen on the pad, and it rolled off onto the desktop. “Ma’am,” he said softly, “how long have you known Damian?”
Pack unwound herself and finally put her feet on the floor. “Goin’ on eleven months. I—” Suddenly, her head jerked toward the wall. Her eyes popped wide. “Whoa, is that a dog?”
“Uh, yes.” Patches was curled nose to tail beside a plant stand, where he’d been since Pack barreled in and started her ramble.
“Like a guard dog or protection?” she asked. “Where’d he come from?”
“A pet. He’s harmless. He’s been right there for a while.”
“Yeah, okay. Cool. I’m just tore out of the frame over this murder charge against Damian. Can’t keep my mind focused like I should.”
“Ms. Pack,” Andy said sympathetically, “I’ve known Damian Bullins for over ten years, and I say this with all due respect: Damian is exactly the type of person who’d commit this crime, and his prior conduct and convictions prove he’s quite capable of violence. It might be beneficial for you to learn—and this is public record—that a meth-paranoid Damian beat a lady named Gayle Adkins black and blue and served jail time because of it. She was his ‘fiancée’ in 2016, and sadly, at his sentencing, she took an oath and testified he was a changed man and an irreplaceable father-figure to her son. She begged the judge to go easy on him. Sound familiar?”
“So how’s it justice to keep draggin’ up a person’s past?” Pack snarled. “Can’t nobody ever pay their debt?” She shook her head, angry. “Seems like you done made up your mind Damian’s guilty, and you ain’t doin’ squat for him. A typical PD. It ain’t for ‘public defender,’ it’s initials for ‘prison deliverer.’”
“Ms. Pack, my job is to do the best I can for my client. I wish I had better facts and evidence, but I don’t. The commonwealth has a strong case against Damian.”
“Here’s somethin’ else I’m sure you don’t know. The first Sunday I went to visit him at the jail, he told me there was more to this than the police were revealin’, more than people was aware of, so I think there are secrets or hidden truth which you aren’t discoverin’.”
“Did he tell you exactly what this huge secret is?”
“No, he couldn’t,” she said.
“Couldn’t?” Andy paused. “Maybe, and this often happens, he simply hoped to save face with his girlfriend. Who wants to confess to a loved one that ‘hey, I sliced an innocent mom’s throat and took her life because I was high on drugs?’ Usually the there’s-more-to-it deflections involve a mysterious ‘they’ or ‘two dudes who appeared out of the blue,’ or, at the big-league level, an operative in a fedora and trench coat.”
“Maybe,” Pack huffed, “you should get off your smart ass and stop sidin’ with the state and look into shit.”
“Unless you have more to tell me, I need to be in court soon. I’m not allowed to discuss the particulars of Damian’s case with you, but please know I’ve been investigating a situation that might prove to be very positive for him.”
“How about obvious stuff, like maybe that colored Benson woman he’s supposed to have stabbed was pregnant or hooked on drugs? Damian had been at their house hundreds of times, so maybe they had some relationship. A famous rich guy like her husband would do all he could to keep things on the down-low. You ever think ’bout that?”
Andy had heard enough. Misty Pack had finally pissed him off. He set his jaw hard, drew a bead on her. “Listen to me, Ms. Pack.” He tried to smother his temper, but it still inflamed every syllable. “First, Damian had not been there ‘hundreds of times.’ Second, none of your obnoxious theories make any sense whatsoever. Third, the autopsy report showed no signs of recent sexual activity, she was not pregnant—especially by your boyfriend—and her toxicity screens were negative for drugs. More to the point, there’s no chance this lady would ever touch Damian Bullins, not even with gloves, an N-95 mask and a ten-foot pole. You need to stop wasting my time with your shameful, worthless, misinformed slander. You’re free to go. Have a nice day.”
“Big surprise. The state pays you, and you work for them, not Damian. Screw you, bitch. You and your dumbass dog both. I’m gonna hire Damian a real lawyer.”
•••
Andy thought and debated and dithered until four o’clock, couldn’t decide. Twice, he wandered down the hall but turned around. He went outside to smoke, lit a cigarette, paced on the sidewalk behind his office, inhaled a single draw, and threw the Marlboro away—a waste. The day had kicked off poorly, what with Misty Pack’s asinine rantings, and then he’d lost a trial, a close grand larceny case, and bad things come in threes, so maybe tomorrow was a better choice, the juju rectified, the slate clean.
He’d decided to wait until his odds and omens improved and was leaving for thirty minutes of Cybex machines at the gym, but as he passed by Kellie Alison’s office, the door was swung open—it’d been closed all afternoon—and she glanced up from her keyboard and saw him in the hall and called his name. “Andy. Hello. Come in, please. I heard the news this morning from Vikram. I’m so sorry. I can’t believe it. I hope you’re okay.”
Andy tugged the leash, and he and Patches veered into the office. “Thanks. I’m fine.”
“I’m guessing this is Patches,” she said. “Cindy told me the whole story. How sweet.” She spoke to the dog, her voice silly and playful: “What a handsome boy. Who’s a handsome boy? And smart too, a smart fellow.”
“Smart when he’s not on the lam and terrorizing my neighbor’s donkeys.” Andy smiled. “I will say, to his credit, I’m pretty certain he’s never been on a leash in his life, but he’s learning quickly.”
