Trial, page 53
“Who was she?” Ford asked.
“Molly Parnell.”
The murmurs of surprise from those watching were followed by a stifling silence. Grasping Malcolm’s arm, Chase whispered, “This may be it.”
From the bench, Tilly looked from Harris to the witness. Calmly, Ford asked Spinetta, “What do you know about Molly Parnell?”
“She’s a white nationalist, like her brother Charles. They lead the local version of a group called White Lightning.”
Behind them Chase heard another stir. Turning, he saw Dorothy Bullock leaving the courtroom, holding the hands of her son and daughter, her face set and staring straight ahead. Impervious, Ford asked Spinetta, “For the record, is White Lightning the group of armed militia that threatened the offices of Blue Georgia after the 2020 election?”
“That’s right.”
“Did the reasons George Bullock needed to keep this relationship secret include Ms. Parnell’s political beliefs? And, for that matter, his own?”
“Yes.” Increasingly, Chase thought, Spinetta spoke with a certain stoic fatalism—the damage to himself, and to the Bullock family, was already done. “George was worried it could cost him his job.”
“Seems like a reasonable fear. Did Deputy Bullock ever tell you how he’d become involved with Molly Parnell?”
Spinetta folded his hands. “According to George, they met at a rally over in Peach County. He was working security for the lady who was a United States senator then, just to pick up some extra money. White Lightning was doing her security, too, and it sounded to me like Molly had come on to George. Anyhow, they started seeing each other when they could—outside the county, or maybe late at night.”
Ford paused to think. “In your understanding, did Molly Parnell have any influence on Deputy Bullock’s racial and political attitudes?”
“I know she did,” Spinetta said in a tone of regret. “Molly had ideas, he told me. George was never a big liberal, and he’d always had his views about Black people and crime. But it wasn’t until he met Molly that he started carrying on to me about something he called the Great Replacement, where Blacks were supposedly working to replace white Christians and turn America into this crime-ridden country run by minorities who hated police. I thought that was crazy, too, even before he started saying violence might be the only way to save us. It was like Molly Parnell had set something loose in George he hadn’t known was there.”
“Is that when he began talking about Allie Hill?”
“It seemed like that. Especially after the presidential election.”
“2020,” Ford said, “was also the year Al Garrett became Cade County’s first Black sheriff. Do you know how Deputy Bullock fell about that?”
Spinetta frowned. “From George’s standpoint, it was a pretty tense relationship. He thought Sheriff Garrett was out to get him.”
“Did he say why?”
“He believed the sheriff was watching him. According to George, Sheriff Garrett came pretty close to asking point-blank whether he’d ever stopped drug dealers, taken their money, and let them go instead of calling in the stop.”
“Could Bullock have done that?”
Spinetta’s eyes narrowed in thought. “I’ve got no reason to think he had, so you’d have to ask the sheriff what he was wondering about. But sure, he could have. He’d just have to know who he was looking for, and then figure out a way to go off the grid.”
“Like with Malcolm.”
Spinetta gave Ford a quick look of surprise. “To be honest, I never put the two together.”
“Maybe not. But did Bullock ever mention Allie Hill in connection with Sheriff Garrett?”
“He did,” Spinetta acknowledged. “He said that without her, the sheriff never would’ve been elected.”
Leaning closer to Malcolm, Chase whispered, “That ties in with your testimony about what Bullock said when he stopped you.” To his surprise, he saw tears surface in Malcolm’s eyes, and imagined his son thinking that, at last, people might actually believe him.
“In light of all that,” Ford asked sharply, “it didn’t occur to you at the time Bullock died that he might have been following Malcolm?”
Spinetta sat back. “I considered that. But Malcolm was clearly intoxicated, so George had every reason to stop him if he was driving erratically. We’d been talking for hours that night, and he gave me no reason to think he was looking for anyone. Malcolm’s name never came up. George was just sitting out on Old County Road, and I couldn’t see how he’d even know that Malcolm was coming.”
There was a logic to this, Chase knew, and feared that Ford would hit a dead end. “Could you tell the court,” Ford asked Spinetta, “when and how you came to inform Mr. Harris about the existence of the phone?”
Spinetta seemed to gather himself. “Early on in the investigation, Sheriff Garrett held a meeting with me and the district attorney. He wanted to make sure I told Mr. Harris whatever I knew about George’s political beliefs. So I explained how he felt about Allie Hill and the election.”
“But not about Molly Parnell and the ghost phone.”
“No. Not then.” For the first time, the deputy’s tone was tinged with a self-blaming irony. “I still didn’t want to hurt Dorothy and the kids. Or maybe Susan and our kids. I just kept telling myself that George’s affair had nothing to do with him getting killed.”
Taut, Allie awaited the next question.
“What happened to change your mind?” Ford asked.
Spinetta squared his shoulders. “Sheriff Garrett happened,” he answered. “Last night he called me to another meeting with the district attorney. He said it was likely I’d be recalled to testify, and that now was the time to come forward with anything else I knew about George Bullock. That he’d hate to see a verdict rendered without the jury knowing everything it should.”
“How did you respond?”
“I said that I’d think about it very hard.” Spinetta paused, as if contemplating the fateful moment anew. “I went home and told Susan. Then I opened up the drawer, took out the phone, and turned it back on. Once I saw it still worked, I opened it using George’s usual password—his initials and birthday. Then I started scrolling through his texts. I thought they’d all be from Molly, but they weren’t.”
Ford waited a moment. “Who were they from?”
“Her brother. Charles Parnell. He was the one who’d been following Malcolm. The last text before Molly’s said that Malcolm was heading home down Old County Road.”
Allie felt herself shudder. “Right away,” Spinetta continued. “I understood what had happened. Molly had recruited George for her brother, and now George had become one of them.” His voice lowered. “I don’t know what he meant to do with Malcolm. But if George had never met the Parnells, he’d still be alive, and Malcolm Hill wouldn’t be on trial for murder. There was nothing left but for me to come forward.”
Ford turned to Judge Tilly. “No further questions, Your Honor.”
To Allie, the courtroom felt as quiet as a caught breath. For a moment, Tilly looked stunned, and then recovered his judicial authority. “In light of this testimony,” he ordered,” I want to see counsel back in chambers. Right now.”
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Gathering in chambers, the four lawyers were sober and subdued. A transparent evidence bag containing a black cell phone sat on Tilly’s desk.
“If there’s any doubt,” Harris told him, “Deputy Spinetta accurately described the texts from the evening of June 22. Again, I want it clear that my office had no idea that this evidence existed.”
Somber, Tilly looked from Harris to Ford. “So, Counsel, what to do. I imagine Mr. Ford is not without thoughts.”
That was surely true, Chase knew. But he had no idea what Ford intended to say, and by itself a mistrial might leave Malcolm in jail awaiting Harris’ decision on whether to retry the case.
“As I believe the court is suggesting,” Ford answered promptly, “the proper remedy is to declare a mistrial. A member of law enforcement who served as the prosecution’s first witness was in possession of exculpatory evidence not disclosed to the defense. It will take weeks, if not months, to investigate the full implications of this—including the connections between Deputy Bullock, the Parnells, and White Lightning. The trial is hopelessly tainted, and even if it weren’t, the court can’t hold the jury captive until the investigation is complete.”
“Mr. Harris?” the judge inquired. “As unfortunate as this may be, do you see any other recourse? I’m hard-pressed to find one.”
Reluctantly, Harris nodded. “So am I, Your Honor. The prosecution will agree to a mistrial.”
“Then that’s what we’ll do,” Tilly responded.
It was moving too quickly, Chase thought, and too neatly. Then he saw the hint of a smile in Ford’s eyes. “Of course,” Ford said easily, “declaring a mistrial is just the beginning. As a matter of law, my client has been in legal jeopardy since the jury was impaneled. To retry him would violate the constitutional provision against double jeopardy.”
Tilly regarded him with an inscrutable expression. “What do you suggest, Counsel?”
Ford sat back in his chair, spreading his hands in a gesture that suggested that he was about to say the obvious. “Seems like the only solution is to dismiss the case with prejudice, and free Malcolm Hill for good.”
Studying Tilly, Chase thought he detected the faintest trace of amusement. “It’s certainly one solution,” the judge responded, and turned back to Harris. “Clearly, Mr. Ford came here intending to offer you a choice. You can oppose his motion to dismiss, and hope I deny it, or you can say you’re not opposed and let the defendant walk away.”
Silent, Chase watched Harris perceive that he was standing on Ford’s trapdoor. The thoughts behind his patent unhappiness were easy to read. For his constituents who had avidly supported Malcolm’s prosecution, consenting to a dismissal would look incompetent and irresolute; for others, opposing it would mean that he was attempting to revive a tainted prosecution, redolent of bigotry, for a trial that he would have little chance of winning.
“I don’t envy you, Dalton,” Tilly observed. “From your perspective, this is not a pleasant choice. Before you make it, if you like I can perhaps offer a little guidance.”
Glancing at Ford, Chase saw that they shared the same thought—that, quite deliberately, Tilly had reprised that classic moment from The Godfather: making an offer Harris could not refuse. With the air of a man entrapped, Harris responded, “Of course, Your Honor.”
Tilly, Chase realized, had assumed an avuncular persona unseen in court but, perhaps, familiar to Harris. Watching, Chase began to imagine the two men having lunch at their country club, discussing in practical terms the realities and responsibilities they understood in common.
“To start,” the judge told Harris, “you’re in an increasingly difficult position. Next year you’re up for reelection, and some folks will be unhappy no matter what you do. But what happens if you decide to retry this case—not just to you, but to this community?
“I don’t think you can win it, and neither do you. But you’d look bad trying, and so would this county. This case just became a national embarrassment, and that’s not good for a place that wants more businesses to relocate here. That may not be relevant legally, but you’re not just the district attorney. You’re a leading citizen of this community.”
It was fascinating, Chase thought, to watch Tilly openly state the premises on which the local establishment operated, validating the assessment Ford had offered Chase on the first day they had met. But, through this prism, the judge seemed to be edging Harris toward a decision that benefited Malcolm Hill, and Ford’s impassivity suggested a determination to conceal the fervent hopes they shared in common, still hanging in suspension while Tilly spoke to Harris as if no one else were there.
“People like the Parnells,” Tilly continued, “aren’t good for this community. It turns out that the late George Bullock wasn’t very good for this community. Seems to me a little fumigation is in order, and it falls to you to start the job.
“So let’s get back to the law. It’s not just that you can’t win this case—it’s that you shouldn’t. I’ve been on the bench for almost thirty years, and I’m not running for reelection. I want to retire with a clear conscience. So all I have to worry about is whether some outraged citizen tries to blow my head off when I’m standing over a putt on the eighteenth green.”
Leaning forward, Tilly regarded Harris intently. “That leaves you. You can oppose the defendant’s motion, and have a pretty good chance of prevailing, only to be stuck retrying this case. Or you can acquiesce, knowing there’s no one to appeal my ruling. If you do, I’ll grant it, and we can all go home—including Malcolm Hill. If you’re lucky, some people will blame Deputy Spinetta for sandbagging you, and the diehards who still want this prosecution will blame him for defiling George Bullock’s good name. If I were young Mr. Spinetta, I’d start looking for another profession in some other jurisdiction. But that’s not your problem, nor is it mine. Living with ourselves is problem enough.
“So what’s your pleasure, Dalton? Because in exactly one hour, I’m going to entertain the defendant’s motion to dismiss. I can’t tell you what to do, but I can tell you what I think. Under the circumstances, the estimable Mr. Ford has just done you a favor.”
At a little past four o’clock, Ford, Chase, and Malcolm gathered at the defense table, awaiting Judge Tilly and, critically, Harris’ decision. Standing with Amanda Jackson, the district attorney prosecutor had an opaque expression, and he did not look in their direction. The courtroom was jammed; among the spectators, only Allie and Janie Hill knew what had happened in Tilly’s chambers, and what might happen to Malcolm.
All five of them, Chase knew, were filled with hope and afraid to hope. Both Ford and Chase rested a hand on Malcolm’s shoulder.
When they had first gathered with his mother and grandmother in a conference room, the better for Ford and Chase to explain in private what Judge Tilly had said to Harris, Malcolm had struggled to absorb it. For too long now, imprisonment had been his reality, and the prosecution had blighted his future. Freedom had become too hard to imagine.
Finally, Malcolm shook his head, an expression of disbelief so profound that Chase found it painful to watch. “What you’re telling me is that by tonight I could be having dinner at home.”
“Maybe,” Ford admonished. “We can’t be sure yet. But if it happens, I imagine your mom can come up with something.”
“Best to let me do it,” Janie told Malcolm. “I cook better.”
But beneath their efforts to buttress each other, the atmosphere was tentative and tense. However much he loved Allie, however dearly he wished for Malcolm to regain his life, Chase did not quite know what to say. He was acutely aware of being the only white person in the room and, relative to the others, still a stranger to their lives, unable to fully access the emotions of four Black people hoping for justice in a place they knew too well. All he could do was what he had done for the last nine months—be there.
When Janie suggested that everyone hold each other’s hands in prayer, Chase joined them.
Now, as the minutes crept by in the courtroom, Malcolm watched the empty bench. Chase could feel the tension in his shoulders; the almost superstitious fear that freedom was a mirage that would vanish in an instant, just as it had vanished on a dark country road with the accidental twitch of a trigger.
“All rise,” the courtroom deputy called out, and as those assembled stirred to their feet, Judge Tilly took his place.
To Chase, he looked remarkably composed, as though this hearing had not been proceeded by testimony so remarkable that it had changed the course of the trial.
“Please be seated,” he said. “The first order of business is the defendant’s motion for a mistrial. Mr. Ford?”
With a nonchalance Chase knew he did not feel, Ford walked to the podium.
“May it please the court,” he said firmly, “the testimony of Deputy Spinetta necessitates a mistrial. On the virtual threshold of closing arguments, we’ve learned that the trial has proceeded without evidence critical to the defense—specifically, a cell phone that corroborates the defendant’s account of his encounter with Deputy George Bullock. This, in turn, suggests that there may be further exculpatory evidence as yet unknown. There is simply no way to remove the prejudice to Mr. Hill, or to hold the trial in suspension pending further inquiry.”
“Thank you, Mr. Ford,” the judge responded. “Mr. Harris?”
Harris stood without leaving the prosecution table. “Now that we’re in open court, I want to emphasize that we had no knowledge of this new evidence until yesterday evening. Nor did we have any reason to suspect the existence of an untraceable cell phone belonging to Deputy Bullock. If Deputy Spinetta had chosen to come forward, as was his duty, the decisions made by our office could have been very different.”
Harris, Chase perceived, was taking the escape route suggested by the judge—blame Nick Spinetta. Nodding, Tilly responded, “As I understand it, Mr. Harris, the defendant’s motion for mistrial carries no imputation of prosecutorial misconduct. Is that correct, Mr. Ford?”
Hardly, Chase thought. But for Malcolm’s sake, Ford was prepared to play his role in Judge Tilly’s kabuki theater. Rising, he said smoothly, “It is, Your Honor.”
“Very well,” the judge said. “That leaves the question of whether the prosecution opposes a mistrial.”
For an instant, Harris hesitated. “We do not,” Harris answered.
“With that,” Tilly said formally, “the court declares a mistrial in the case of State of Georgia versus Malcolm Hill. Before we excuse the jury, are there any other matters on which counsel desires to be heard?”
