Up Jumps the Devil

After the rain. Sometime between midnight and when I found them with Adam.

And thinking of Adam, did he burn his hand on a brush fire? Or was it an acetylene torch?

I convened court fifteen minutes earlier than usual.

A grim-faced Portland was seated at the defendant’s table. She wore an authoritative, don’t-mess-with-me coat-dress of power red. Beside her sat two very apprehensive people, Timothy Collins and Diana Henderson.

Ambrose Daughtridge, who had represented Clea Beecham and her small daughter, sat at the opposing table. Mid-fifties, silver-haired, soft-spoken and courtly, he looks as if he should be cataloging books in a library at some small elite college.

I fixed the two miscreants with what I hoped was a steely eye and said, “It has come to my attention that there may have been some irregularities in the paternity testing procedure done by you, Mrs. Henderson, resulting in some false testimony in the trial. I’m going to give you and Mr. Collins each an opportunity now to correct any testimony you may have given during the trial. I warn you that perjury and subornation of perjury are both felonies that carry serious penalties. Now, before I refer this matter to the DA for investigation of these charges, do either of you have anything to say?”

Collins wanted to stonewall, but Mrs. Henderson started crying almost immediately.

It was a shabby story that unfolded in the next few minutes. Each blamed the other for initiating the lie, but the end disclosure was that Collins paid her five hundred dollars in return for testimony that would let him weasel out of giving any support to his daughter.

I thought of Dwight, who paid above and beyond for his son Cal.

I thought of all the time and money Kidd devoted to his daughter Amber.

Hell, even Allen, scoundrel that he was, not only paid for his daughter Wendy Nicole (admittedly not always on time), he was actually helping his girlfriend out with her daughter, little Tiffany Jane.

But Timothy Collins, white-collar civil engineer, was ready to walk away from two-year-old Brittany, a baby he helped make, as if she were nothing more than a kitten or puppy that could be returned to the pet store for all he cared just so long as the monthly payments didn’t show up on his charge card statements.

Dwight and Kidd and Allen were—

I lost the rest of that thought because something niggled at the perimeter of my mind. Something not only niggled, it danced up and down and yelled, “Hey! Over here! Pay attention!”

Diana Henderson? I checked back through the records. Jamerson Labs is headquartered in Burlington, only a stone’s throw from Greensboro.

As I’d noticed before, her eyes were her best facial feature, but they were red and tear-drenched now. Her long nose was also red and her recessive chin quivered with suppressed sobs as I set about trying to undo the damage they’d done.

I asked my recording clerk to prepare a transcript of this morning’s session and to deliver it to the DA, who would probably initiate an investigation of Mrs. Henderson’s previous court appearances. I told Mrs. Henderson that she could expect him to notify the appropriate agencies as well.

“And, Mr. Daughtridge? If you wish to file a motion to set aside my earlier verdict, along with a motion for a new trial, I will allow it.”

“Thank you, Your Honor.”

I ended the session by calling for a ten-minute recess before getting into the day’s calendar. As everyone stood for me to leave the courtroom, Timothy Collins glanced at Portland. “Guess you want me to find another attorney?”

“Yes, Mr. Collins, I certainly do,” she answered crisply.

I poured myself a cup of coffee from the communal urn in the hallway and went on into my chamber, not realizing that Diana Henderson had followed.

She stood in my doorway and fumbled with her coat. Early forties, ash blond hair and not a pretty face, but her voice still had that lovely timbre as she said, “May I speak to you a minute, Your Honor?”

When I nodded, she came in and closed the door and headed for the chair by my desk. I kept trying to look at her from a male viewpoint. The dark green knit dress she wore demurely flattered a nicely proportioned body, accenting slender hips and full rounded breasts.

“What’s going to happen to me?” she asked fearfully.

“I can’t say,” I replied, “but I suggest that you retain an attorney as soon as possible.”

Another flood of tears.

She seemed to have reduced all her tissues to damp shreds, so I went into the lavatory off my office and brought her some paper towels and toilet tissue.

“Thank you.” She blew her nose and looked up at me. I was still standing beside her chair.

“Oh, God! Why did I ever let him talk me into this?” she sobbed.

I would have felt sorrier for her had not a strong conviction been growing inside me with every sob.

Her green knit dress had a loose cowl neckline.

“May I?” I asked. Without waiting for an answer, I pulled it down over her left shoulder.

There, where Allen’s hand would have rested when they walked arm in arm, was a small black star. The day she had testified, it was not a mole I had noticed under her semi-sheer white blouse. It was another one of those damn tattoos.

“How much did Allen Stancil pay you to lie for him?” I asked her. “Or did you take it out in trade?”

My court calendar was longer than usual as the DA tried to schedule as many cases as possible in light of the Thanksgiving holiday coming up.