An Innocent Client

a nasty bruise on her face, a shriveled penis (the medical examiner said it had been removed postmortem), no murder weapon, and a missing car. That was it. Oh, yeah, they also had a gem of a victim.

Fucking preacher at a strip club. An East Tennessee jury would love that.

”Let me keep our surveillance on Erlene Barlowe for a while longer, see if she makes a mistake,” Landers said.

”Here’s the real deal, Phil,” Deacon said, ”just between you and me, all right? I don’t give a damn about the victim’s son calling and I don’t care about that old hag over in Carter County. Hell, my secretary takes the calls anyway. It’s no skin off my butt.

But eight years ago, when I was running for DA for the first time against a powerful incumbent and I needed money the way a fat kid needs cake, that sorry SOB that owned the Mouse’s Tail gave my opponent five thousand in cash as a campaign contribution. Didn’t give me the first dime.”

”So?”

”I’ve been after him ever since. There have always been rumors that Gus Barlowe was running drugs out of the club, but we haven’t been able to catch them.”

”He’s dead, Deacon.”

”I know that, but his wife isn’t dead, is she?”

”We don’t have any evidence against her.”

Deacon waved his hand dismissively. ”You know how these things go, Phil. You’ve got a pretty strong circumstantial case. We’ll take it in front of the grand jury, get an indictment, and go arrest the girl.

She’ll most likely confess or roll on the Barlowe woman. If she doesn’t, I’ll file a death penalty notice and up the pressure on her. Don’t worry about it.

Let’s go ahead and shake this tree and see what falls out. Hell, this is an election year. It’d be a real feather in my cap to put that bitch out of business before August.”

Before August. Election year. Put that bitch out of business. None of this shit has anything to do with getting a murder conviction. What Deacon was really saying was that we needed to make an arrest. Didn’t matter whether the girl was guilty, as long as somebody got locked up for the murder. No way it would go to trial before the election, and if it turned out she didn’t do it, so what? At least Deacon would be assured of eating at the taxpayers’ trough for another eight years. Fucking moron. Him and his goddamned tree.

Landers finished his run and headed inside for a shower. He had a date at eight.

April 30

8:45 a.m.

I smiled at Tammy Lewis, a pretty, green-eyed blonde with a sharp sense of humor and a sharper tongue. She’d worked for the circuit court clerk for twelve years. Her primary responsibility was to sit at Judge Leonard Green’s side during proceedings and ensure that his court ran smoothly. There were two criminal court judges that presided over the four-county circuit where I did most of my work: Ivan the Terrible and Leonard Green the dancing machine. I called Green that because he’d gotten drunk at a Christmas party a few years back and started dancing on a table. Cases were assigned by number.

Odd numbers went to Glass; even numbers went to Green. Angel’s case was an even number.

”Good morning, Tammy,” I said. ”Ready for the circus?”

”Meaning?”

”I’m representing Angel Christian.”

Tammy rolled her eyes. ”No kidding? Well, ain’t you just the lucky victim. I guess the question is, are you ready? His royal highness wants to deal with your client first thing. They brought her over from the jail about an hour ago; she’s in the holding cell.

There are already three television cameras in the courtroom and at least five newspaper photographers. Reporters all over the place. At least you’ll get some free pub out of this.”

I cringed at the thought of the media in the courtroom. Judge Green was always at his most belligerent in front of the television cameras. He’d often declared his belief that the voting public wanted judges who were tough on criminals, and when the media came to court, he made sure he didn’t disappoint his constituency.

I walked through the clerk’s office and into the hallway that ran parallel to the courtroom. When I reached the door, I stopped and stuck my head inside. Judge Green was not yet on the bench. Green and I had a long history of bickering that sometimes turned downright nasty. I thought he was pompous and effeminate. He thought I was a belligerent Neanderthal. Both of us were probably a little bit right.

The jury box was filled with television cameras, newspaper photographers, and reporters. I noticed they started huddling as soon as they saw me walk through the door and sit down at the defense table.

Six uniformed Washington County sheriff’s deputies flanked the courtroom. Six was a number reserved for the most dangerous defendants, and I certainly didn’t think Angel qualified. The gallery on the civilian side of the bar was nearly full; there were close to a hundred people in the audience, most of them criminal defendants and their families. They would wait their turn without complaint, hoping to appear before the court in anonymity after the press had packed up and left.

District Attorney Deacon Baker was talking to a television reporter from Bristol near the jury box.

Baker rarely made court appearances and hardly ever participated in trials, but he never missed an opportunity to preach the virtues of justice and law enforcement in front of the media. Baker’s newest lead assistant, Frankie Martin, a bright but unseasoned youngster, sat at the prosecution table rummaging through a file.

At precisely nine a.m., Wilkie Baines, one of the criminal court bailiffs, strode to the front of Judge Green’s bench and faced the crowd. The door to Green’s chambers opened and the judge seemed to glide through the door, his perfectly groomed silver hair freshly cut, his black robe flowing behind him.

”All rise,” Baines called in his best town-crier voice. ”The criminal court for Washington County is now in session, the Honorable Leonard P. Green presiding. Please come to order.”

Judge Green climbed the steps to the bench and took his seat in the high-backed black leather chair directly beneath a massive portrait of himself.

”Thank you, Deputy Baines,” he said. ”Please be seated.”

I, along with everyone else in the courtroom, dutifully sat down.

”Good morning,” Judge Green said.

”Good morning.” Nearly everyone in the courtroom responded, as though they feared the consequences of remaining silent.

”The first case we’re going to address this morning is an arraignment in the State of Tennessee versus Angel Christian.” He turned to the prosecution. ”And I see that the district attorney himself has chosen to grace us with his presence today. To what do we owe this rare pleasure?”

Baker’s face flushed the slightest bit. He stood up.

”This is a serious case, Your Honor. I’m merely here to ensure that all goes well.”

”And to get yourself a little free publicity in an election year, I trust.” Baker thought Judge Green was soft on sentencing sex offenders and wasn’t shy about saying it to the local media. Baker had also openly and actively supported the judge’s opponent in the last election. He was fond of telling people he wouldn’t piss on Judge Green if the judge were on fire. Green, for his part, took obvious pleasure in harassing and humiliating Baker every chance he got.

I’d seen them nearly come to blows on several occasions. They truly hated each other.

”I didn’t invite the press,” Baker said. ”I believe their presence here has something to do with the First Amendment.”

”You may not have invited them, but you’ve certainly had plenty to say about this case over the past week. You’ve been on television more than Law amp; Order reruns.”

Baker plunked back down into his chair, either unwilling or unable to spar with the judge, and Judge Green turned to me.

”What are you doing at the defense table, Mr.

Dillard?”

”Representing the defendant, Judge.” I knew he preferred ”Your Honor.”