At 8:30, balancing coffee cups and plates of fruit, we took our seats at the long rows of narrow tables as our president, Joe Buckner from Chapel Hill, called us to order. He gave us the update on Fitz: “He’s in intensive care at New Hanover Regional downtown. His condition’s stable, but serious. No visitors and no flowers, but Martha asks that you keep him in your hearts and in your prayers, which we certainly do.”
As for Pete Jeffreys, there were no suspects yet in his death, “And again, our hearts and prayers go out to his family.”
“Does he have any?” I whispered to Chelsea Ann, who was seated beside me at a front table.
“Ex-wife, but no kids,” she whispered back. “Don’t know about siblings or parents.”
Buckner recognized the recently retired and recently appointed emergency judges and asked the chief district judges to introduce to us those newly on the bench in their districts.
Next came Chief Justice Sarah Parker of our supreme court, who spoke to our salary needs and the bills that were currently before the general assembly in Raleigh. I wondered if that young reporter from the local NPR station had interviewed her yet. She also touched on the problems of alcoholism and depression among some judges and attorneys, but commended our court system for its professionalism and overall lack of corruption.
I hope she’s right and that judges like Pete Jeffreys are a tiny, tiny minority.
Justice Parker was followed by John Smith, the director of the Administrative Office of the Courts, who spoke about the updated technology being put into place, everything from e-filing to e-citations.
Finally, the executive director of judicial standards spoke to us on campaign ethics and what we could and couldn’t do.
When the mid-morning break arrived, I was more than ready for it.
CHAPTER
19
DETECTIVE GARY EDWARDS (TUESDAY MORNING,
JUNE 17)
As soon as he got off the phone with Judge Knott, Detective Edwards called headquarters and arranged to have an officer stationed by Judge Fitzhume’s bed.
Next, he called the SandCastle Hotel and asked to speak to Mrs. Fitzhume.
“I’m sorry,” said the desk clerk, “but Mrs. Fitzhume checked out about ten minutes ago.”
Edwards identified himself, then asked, “Did she happen to say if she was on her way to the hospital?”
“No, sir, but I do know that she was moving over to a hotel in town to be nearer the hospital. The Hilton.”
A call to the Hilton confirmed that she had reserved a room, but had not yet checked in.
As he showered and shaved, Edwards decided that Martha Fitzhume would no doubt go to the hospital first, so he stopped by the department, where he picked up the list of names he had compiled earlier and checked to see if any progress had been made on identifying the license plate on the red Geo Metro.
“It looks like the plate was deliberately smeared with mud or something,” the squad’s computer jock told him. “It also looks like one of those specialty plates, but I haven’t been able to match it yet.”
North Carolina issues dozens of different license plates to special interest groups. From its many colleges to the Sons of Confederate Veterans to horseless carriage enthusiasts, each group has a plate with a different design. Most of them carry the state name in blue along the bottom, and while Edwards could make out a fuzzy—TH CAROLINA when he peered at the screen, the design was unfamiliar. Nor did it fit any of the electronic templates that had been tried so far.
“Any chance that those first three letters at the bottom are S-O-U instead of N-O-R?” he asked. Wilmington was only about seventy miles from the border.
“Hey, that’s a thought,” the younger man said, and his fingers flew over the keys.
“Buzz me if you get anything,” Edwards said, and headed over to the hospital through a steady rain that was causing deep puddles in low areas of the street. An oncoming car threw up such a sheet of water, he had to brake until the wipers cleared the windshield enough for him to see through the gray morning light.
Inside the medical center, the sharp hospital smell hit him as soon as he passed the main reception desk and turned down a wide hall, a chemical blend of cleaning agents, antiseptics, and bleached linens. The smell always upped his anxiety level, rousing dormant childhood memories of his younger sister, who had died of leukemia when he was twelve. Not for the first time, he found himself wondering if he would feel differently about hospitals if he and his ex had had a baby. Would a joyous birth balance out death? He was forty-four years old and glumly aware that every year increased the odds that he might never know.
At the intensive care unit, Martha Fitzhume and her son were emerging through the door that led to the ICU pods when he arrived. He spoke to the uniformed officer and then to the judge’s wife. There were dark circles under her keen blue eyes and she looked drawn and tired, yet she recognized him immediately and her voice was strong when she asked, “Have you found the car, Detective Edwards?”
“Sorry, ma’am. Not yet. How’s Judge Fitzhume?”
“No change,” the son said, positioning a chair for her. He had his mother’s bony face and nose and there were a few gray hairs at his temples.
“You’re mistaken, Chad. When I spoke to him and squeezed his hand, it felt as if he squeezed back.”
“I know you want to believe that, Mom, but are you sure you didn’t imagine it?”
