“Rough and getting rougher. It’s raining and the temperature’s dropping fast, so be careful, okay?”
“I will. See you in about an hour.”
“We don’t have anything on for tonight, do we?”
“Nothing on my calendar that I know of.”
“I’ll bring pizza.”
“A man after my own heart.”
“That’s what I’m aiming for.”
“Sorry,” I said to Nolan Capps as I rang off.
“That’s okay. I know you need to go, so I’ll be quick. See, our criminal law clinic is connected with the Actual Innocence project. We’ve already taken on our limit for the year, and besides, we don’t do death penalty cases because they have access to a lot of legal reviews. But when I was telling my mother about it, she got all excited and wanted us to stop Martha Hurst’s execution. You know about Martha Hurst?”
“A little,” I said cautiously.
“Then you know that she’s never confessed to killing her stepson. That’s one of the criteria for taking on a case. Usually a prisoner can get a lesser sentence if they confess. Of course in Hurst’s case, she wasn’t offered a deal, so she had no incentive to confess. But she’s still maintaining her innocence after all this time even though most killers eventually admit that, yeah, they did it.”
As he spoke, the police officer returned with all the i’s dotted and the t’s crossed on his search warrant. I signed it and picked up my heavy coat.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Capps. I have to leave now, but walk out with me and tell me why your mother’s interested in Martha Hurst.”
He slid on his own jacket, tucked the notebook into an inner pocket, and held the door for me.
“They used to be on a team together when I was a kid and we lived in Cotton Grove. Fastpitch softball. Mom played third and Martha Hurst played short. I think I saw her hit two home runs in the same game once. Then we moved to Widdington and Mom started playing with a team there. They kept in sort of loose touch since sometimes their teams would be in the same tournament, and when the murder happened, Mom heard all the talk about it. Nobody on her team thought Ms. Hurst had done it, and Mom went to see her in prison a couple of times. She swears she would have known if Ms. Hurst was lying.”
We walked down a double flight of marble stairs that led to the main rotunda of the old courthouse. It was a few minutes past five and most of the offices were dark. Our footsteps echoed off the marble-clad walls as we passed through the rotunda and continued down a long gloomy hall to the side entrance nearest the parking lot.
“So where do I come in?” I asked.
“First I tried the DA’s office. Mr. Woodall said that as far as he was concerned, the case was over and done with. That she’d had all the benefits of the law, that she was guilty and now the law could take its course. But Ms. Johnson was prosecuting over in Widdington week before last. I got her to talk to me and she finally said she’d take a look at the records. I think she found something because she said she was going to ask to see the first defense lawyer’s case file. That would be Mr. Stephenson’s father, right?”
“Right.”
“And now she’s been shot?”
“You think there’s a causal link?”
“Not necessarily. But it sure does complicate things.”
I pushed open the door. A cold wet wind smacked us in the face, but the portico above sheltered us from the rain itself. The steps already looked slick, though.
“Anyhow, Kayra—Kayra Stewart—she said her grandmother knew just about everybody in this end of the county and that she worked for the mother of the chief deputy and she’d put in a word with him. And Kayra said she’d help while we’re on Christmas break. Then, when I called Mr. Stephenson this morning to tell him we had Martha’s permission to see all her records, he said he wouldn’t mind if I looked at his, but he’d given them to the deputy. He said he had a feeling that you’d probably read them and that he’d call you and—”
“I’m sorry,” I said, “but I really do need to go. Maybe we could talk tomorrow?”
“Martha Hurst only has a month to live,” he said, giving me a soulful look.
It was too cold to argue. I opened my umbrella and started down the steps. He offered me his arm so I wouldn’t slip.
Young, idealistic, and polite, too? He reminded me of my nephew Stevie. I sighed.
“You like pizza?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Then follow me,” I told him. “It’s about a forty-minute drive, so keep up.”
“Yes, ma’am!”
CHAPTER 14
Florence Hartley,
I expected Dwight to be annoyed when I called to say I was bringing a law student home with me, but I hadn’t
