“Well, it was before I joined the department, but the way I heard it, one week in superior court, three of his clients got acquitted—a rapist, a wife-beater, and a child molester. They say that when the final jury returned a not-guilty verdict on the child molester, he went straight back to his office and hung a ‘Closed’ sign on the door. Split every penny of the three fees he got among his staff and then applied to Mr. Burke’s predecessor for a job as a prosecutor. He probably could’ve run for DA himself, but he’s not political. They say he just wants to make sure he’s never again responsible for helping guilty scum go free.”
“I can relate to that,” I said.
“That why you ran for judge?”
“Actually, it was for the opposite reason. I was tired of seeing basically decent people get stiffed by a bigoted judge.”
“Sounds like the flip side of Mr. Deeck’s coin. He’s good people.”
“What about Norman Osborne? Was he good, too?”
Underwood shrugged. “He might’ve bent the rules a little, but I never heard that he actually broke them.”
“And Dr. Ledwig?”
“Same.” He thought about that a moment as he made a left turn off the main highway, then emended, “Or maybe a little more straight-arrow. I think he pretty much played by the rules. And made damn sure others played by them, too.”
“Yet, despite their different moral standards, he and Osborne were good friends and did business together?”
“So they say. You ask Major Bryant this many questions?”
“And he can be just as tight-mouthed as you when he wants to be.”
Underwood laughed.
“Anyhow, I’m district court,” I reminded him. “Not superior. So it’s not like he taints things or I have to recuse myself. Very few of his cases ever show up in my court.”
“And those that do?”
“We’ve never discussed them beforehand and they’re usually pretty solid.”
“Not like yesterday’s concealed weapon?”
For once, I held my tongue. Not for me to criticize his boss’s decision to go to trial for the wrong reason.
“Dava Triplett really is involved with making meth, you know.”
“Then charge her with it and show the evidence,” I said. “Don’t ask a judge to carry the water bucket for sloppy work.”
“Major Bryant must be a brave man,” Underwood said, his lips twitching.
“And not that I’m trying to second-guess you, but what about a search warrant for the Ashe house?”
“Right here.” He patted the front of his jacket. “Had our magistrate sign it before we went up there this morning. Even though Sheriff Horton had the owner’s verbal permission, I like to get the paper, too.”
“Good,” I said. “And as long as we’re dotting all the i’s, you’re not scheduled to testify in district court again this week, are you?”
He shook his head. “If I was, I wouldn’t have eaten your sweet rolls and somebody else would be driving you up here right now.”
Which only confirmed my opinion that Underwood was another one who followed the rules and that it’d been Horton’s decision to let the Triplett matter go to court, not his.
This was the third time I’d been driven over this route and by now I was starting to recognize most of the turns. The ditches next to the rockface were overgrown with wild asters whose deep blue echoed the sky above, and I discovered that I could look over the side of the road into sheer dropoffs without the dizziness I’d felt on Sunday. Part of it, of course, was that, unlike last night, we were moving at a moderate speed, slowed down by out-of-state drivers who clogged both lanes on this beautiful sunny afternoon.
“You ever get impatient with all the tourists?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Not really. The tourists are fine. They can get a little rowdy at times, drink too much, toss their trash out the car windows, even throw a few punches at each other. It’s the seasonal people that can wear you down. People like the Tuzzolinos, who think their money entitles them. Life can get pretty hardscrabble up some of these dirt roads, then you turn around and see people putting up million-dollar houses on land your granddad used to hunt over, see the county running water lines where your grandma used to tote buckets up from a spring, paving the dirt roads they never bothered to pave when the houses were four-room log cabins.
“Take Pritchard Cove. The last Pritchards sold out three years after the first concrete drive was poured. Couldn’t afford the taxes on the homeplace. Took the money and moved on over into Tennessee. They keep on driving up the price of real estate and my kids’ll never be able to live in these hills.”
“It’s not just here,” I told him. “Same thing’s happening down in Colleton County. Only it’s not seasonal people, but people who’ve relocated.”
“At least they support a year-round economy,” said Underwood. “Half our businesses close down in the winter. Cedar Gap’s normal population’s about eleven hundred. From May to mid-October, it’s closer to eight thousand on any given day.”
“And on this given day, they all seem to be out here looking at leaves.” No sooner had I spoken than the road swung out around a huge boulder and I caught my breath at the spectacular vista of hill after rolling hill set on fire by the afternoon sun as it drifted down the western sky. “What a fantastic view!”
“Can’t fault people for wanting to live here,” he agreed.
