Dead to Rights

her at eleven. “Sheriff Brady?” Kristin Marsten asked uncertainly.

Joanna cleared her throat. Her voice was still thick with sleep. “It’s me, Kristin,” she said. “What’s up?”

“Dick Voland asked me to call you. There’s going to be a telephone conference call with someone from the governor’s office at eleven-thirty. Can you make it?”

“I’ll be there,” Joanna mumbled as she staggered out of bed. Showering and dressing in record time, she headed for the office. The governor’s office, she thought along the way. Why would Governor Wallace Hickman be calling me?

As Joanna drove into the Justice Center compound, she saw that the front parking lot was once again littered with media vehicles, including at least one mobile television van from a station in Tucson. Fortunately, out-of-town reporters, unlike Kevin Dawson of the Bisbee Bee, had no idea about the sheriff’s private backdoor entrance. Joanna took full advantage of that lack of knowledge. Without having had the benefit of a single cup of coffee, she wasn’t ready to face shouted questions from a ravening horde of reporters. For them, Hannah Green’s life and death meant nothing more than a day’s headline or lead story. For the police officers involved, Joanna Brady included, Hannah Green’s death meant failure.

Climbing out of the Blazer, Joanna heaved out her briefcase as well. She had dragged it back and forth from the office without ever unloading it or touching what was inside. No doubt today’s batch of correspondence was already waiting for her. Any other day, the thought of all that paperwork would have been overwhelming. Today, Joanna welcomed it. By burying herself in it, perhaps she’d be able to forget the sight of a massive, lifeless Hannah Green slumped at the end of her jailhouse bunk, the air choked out of her by the tautly stretched elastic of a grimy bra that had been wrapped around and around her neck and finally around the foot rail of her upper bunk.

As soon as Joanna was inside, Kristin Marsten brought her both the mail and a much-needed cup of coffee.

“What’s happening?” Joanna asked. “And who all is here?”

“Mr. Voland, of course,” Kristin answered. “He was here when I arrived. Detective Carpenter showed up a few minutes ago, along with Tom Hadlock.” Tom Hadlock was the jail commander. “Deputy Montoya is here, but he probably won’t be included in the conference call. He’s out front dealing with the reporters.”

“Better him than me,” Joanna said grimly.

Cup in hand, feigning a briskness she didn’t feel, Joanna marched into the conference room with five minutes to spare. Ernie Carpenter, Dick Voland, and Tom Hadlock were al-ready there. Grim-faced and red-eyed, none of them seemed any better off than Joanna felt.

Joanna looked questioningly at Dick Voland. “What’s this ill about?”

Voland shrugged. “Politics as usual,” he said. “It’s no big thing. Whenever something off the wall happens, Governor Hickman wants to be in on it. He probably wants to be reassured that this isn’t something that’s going to come back and bite him in the butt during the next election.”

“What’s going to bite him?”

“Hannah Green’s death.”

“How could what happened to Hannah Green hurt Governor Hickman?”

Voland shrugged. “You know. Allegations of possible police brutality. Violations of constitutional rights. That sort of thing.”

Joanna could feel her temperature rising. “Are you saying Hickman may try to turn that poor woman’s death into a political football?”

“It wouldn’t be the first time,” Ernie said. “And it sure as hell won’t be the last.”

When the phone rang, Joanna punched the speaker button. “Yes,” she said.

“Lydia Morales with the governor’s office is on the phone,” Kristin said.

“Put her through.”

Lydia Morales sounded young-about Joanna’s age, perhaps-and businesslike. “Governor Hickman wanted me to get some information on the incident down there last night,” Lydia said. “He’ll have access to the Department of Public Safety’s files, of course, but he did want me to ask a question or two. For instance, the victim, this Hannah Green, she wasn’t black by any chance, or Hispanic, was she?”

“Black or Hispanic?” Joanna repeated. “What does dial have to do with it?”

Lydia paused. “Well, certainly you understand how, when a prisoner dies in custody, there can always be questions of racism or police brutality or…”

“Or violation of constitutional rights,” Joanna finished.

“Right,” Lydia Morales confirmed brightly.

Hearing Lydia’s response, Joanna knew Dick Voland was right. This really was politics as usual. Lydia Morales and Governor Hickman had no real interest in Hannah Green’s tragic life and death. They were looking for votes, plain and simple. They were checking to see if there were any political liabilities involved or gains to be made in the aftermath of what had happened the night before in the Cochise County Jail. How many constituents would be adversely affected, and could the governor be held accountable?

“You never answered my question about Hannah Green,” Lydia persisted.

Joanna tumbled then. In the minds of the governor’s political strategists there were, presumably, both a black voting block and an Hispanic one as well. Unfortunately for her, Hannah Green fit in neither category.

“Hannah Green was an Anglo,” Joanna said tersely “Good,” Lydia returned. “That will probably help.”

“Help what?” Joanna asked.

“How this thing is handled,” Lydia returned. “The kind of press it’s given. Believe me, trying to fight a racism charge is tough. Definitely lose/lose all the way around.”

Joanna was stunned at being told that having an Anglo woman die in her jail was somehow less politically damaging than having a black or Hispanic prisoner die under similar circumstances. Joanna was still reeling under the awful burden of her own part in Hannah Green^’s death. So were the other weary, grim-faced police officers gathered around the conference table.

AII her life, Joanna had been teased about her red hair her matching fiery temper. Something about Lydia’s glib response set off an explosion in Joanna’s heart, one she made no effort to contain.

‘What you’re saying, then,” Joanna said, “is that violations of constitutional rights are more important if the person being so violated happens to fall in one or another of the politically approved minority categories?”

The question stopped Lydia cold. “I’m sure I…” she began

“Perhaps you could give Governor Hickman a message for me,” Joanna continued. Her voice had dropped to a dangerously low level. “You can tell him that Hannah Green’s constitutional rights were violated.”

“Were?” Lydia Morales repeated. “Don’t you mean weren’t?”

‘No,” Joanna corrected. “I mean were. I believe that our investigation will find that her civil rights were violated for years. Every day, in fact, starting with the moment thirty years ago when her father slammed her hand in a car door and then refused to take her for proper medical treatment. From that time on, and maybe even earlier, Hannah Green was denied life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.”

“By her family, you mean,” Lydia said, sounding relieved more. “Not by a police officer. That would make her death unfortunate, of course, but it shouldn’t be a problem from the governor’s point of view.”

From the governor’s point of view!

“It should be,” Joanna shot back. “Hannah Green may not have a natural base of constituents, but let me remind your, Ms. Morales, two people are dead down here. Most likely those two deaths are attributable to the rising tide of domestic violence. An abuser is dead, and so is his victim. If Governor Hickman isn’t worried about that, he sure as hell ought to be. Good day, Ms. Morales.”

Reaching out, Joanna jabbed at the speaker button, depressing it and disconnecting the call. Then she looked at the three men gathered around the conference table. Tom Hadlock said nothing, but Dick Voland was grinning from ear to ear. Ernie Carpenter was actually applauding.

“Way to go,” Dick Voland told her. “It’s not exactly how to go about winning friends and influencing people, but I couldn’t have said it better myself.”

Tom Hadlock pushed his chair back and stood up. “Glad that little coming to God is over. Now, if you don’t mind, Sheriff Brady, I think I’ll go home and try to get some sleep.”

As Hadlock shuffled out of the room, Joanna turned back to the others. “What about you?”

Ernie leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes. He looked as though he was barely awake. “I’m here now,”