remember a phone call that Sunday, though. The day before he died.”
“Osborne called him?” May asked.
“No, Dad called Mr. Norman. See, what happened was that Bobby and Joyce Ashe stopped by for drinks. Dad was still freaking about Carla and Danny so I stayed in my room till after they were gone, but when I went downstairs to ask Dad about my car—it was in the shop and I was having to get him or Mom to drive me places—he was on the phone in the living room and I heard him say, ‘I’m sorry, Norman, but I can’t stand by and let you do this to them.’ And then he said, ‘I don’t care if it
“Legal but not ethical,” June mused.
“You don’t know what that was about?” asked May.
“No, but whatever it was might not’ve been why they hadn’t seen much of each other before, because Dad sounded like he’d just found out about something he didn’t want Mr. Norman to do, not like it was something he’d known all along.”
“Who was the ‘them’?” I said. “The Ashes?”
“I don’t know. I’ll try asking Mom again, but …” Her voice trailed off and the twins exchanged knowing glances.
Having seen Tina Ledwig’s capacity for vodka last evening, I had a feeling I knew what Trish’s “but” meant.
She checked her watch. “Time’s up. Gotta go. If Mom says anything, I’ll tell you. It sucks that she won’t help Carla hire a real detective. I just hope you can figure it out because it’s eating her and Danny up. Dad could be tight-assed about things, but he would’ve come around and Carla knows that.”
She grabbed her Coke and left.
I followed her example and headed for my morning shower before the twins could get on my case again.
Wednesday seemed to be Lafayette County’s day for assaults on females and domestic violence in general, but at lunchtime I didn’t have to go out because George Underwood appeared at my chamber door with a thermos of hot homemade vegetable beef soup.
“What’s this in aid of?” I asked, breathing in the hearty aroma as he opened the thermos and filled two mugs for both of us.
“A thank-you for noticing those packages,” he said. “We talked to the UPS guy that made the delivery that afternoon. Looks like Mrs. Ledwig’s alibi’s not as tight as we thought it was. She matches the description of the woman he gave the packages to. He says she was walking out to her car when he got there, so he handed her the things and the computerized scanner automatically entered the time—thirty-eight minutes after the bartender says she came into the club.”
“I take it you’ll be speaking to the bartender again?”
Underwood nodded. “I called the club. He comes on duty at one.”
Afternoon court was made interesting by the fact that I had caught on to the flow and rhythm of William Deeck’s methods. Yesterday, for instance, I noticed that he would present me with a string of egregious check- bouncers, habitual shoplifters, or repeat thieves, then slide in someone who seemed basically decent or who had yielded to temptation for the first time. His prosecution would be just as rigorous, but the contrast between defendants was such that most judges would automatically be more inclined to listen sympathetically to whatever justifications a court-appointed attorney might offer.
If Deeck realized that I knew, he didn’t let on by so much as a raised eyebrow.
It was late in the afternoon. We had just finished four trashy cases of domestic violence, men and women hammering on each other. The first, second, and fourth were men who had punched out their women. The third was a woman who’d thrown a kettle of boiling water on her man because he drank up all her bourbon—“And then damned if he didn’t smoke my last cigarette, too!”
Not a marriage license among them and I’ve quit trying to decide whether or not this is a good thing.
Then Deeck presented me with something completely different: the State v. Richard Granger, a tall, lanky man who appeared to be in his mid-fifties. Granger was accused of hunting turkeys out of season up on Laudermilk Ridge, a rather wild and isolated area. Testifying against him with great relish was an equally raw-boned neighbor, Hank Smith, who differed in appearance mainly by the large, slightly soiled bandage over his left ear.
In exchange for Smith’s testimony, the State had agreed not to prosecute him for hunting out of season himself.
I listened in bemusement as Deeck laid out the facts of the case. I’ve been told by one of my colleagues over in Hickory that the real mountain seasons aren’t spring, summer, autumn, or winter, but rather deer, bear, quail, and turkey. Unfortunately for Granger, turkey season ended back in May.
“Nevertheless, we will show the court that Mr. Granger went up to Laudermilk last month to shoot one. Call Mr. Hank Smith to the stand.”
Mr. Smith came forward, laid his hand on the Bible, and soon launched into his account of how he’d been up on the ridge himself that morning when he spied Granger coming up the trail with his shotgun.
“I knowed right away what he was after. If it was squirrels he was wanting, he could’ve bagged hisself one without never leaving his yard. And he’d be carrying his twenty-two, not his twelve-gauge.”
Smith was such a natural-born storyteller that for a moment he seemed to forget that he was sitting in a witness box instead of on somebody’s front porch. Caught up in the telling of the tale, he let his admiration of Granger’s talent almost outweigh his grudge over the personal cost to himself.
“Dick’s a champion turkey caller. You a tom, you’d swear it was the J. Lo of turkey hens a-promising you the best night of your life. Ain’t never seen the day he couldn’t call one up. And sure enough, one come a-walking right out into the clearing up above me, heading on down to where Dick was hiding. ’Bout the time I raised up to shoot, he let fire himself. Winged me right on the ear here.”
In other words, he’d planned to poach from the poacher and lost part of an ear for his sins.
