Mooney seems stunned, as though he would never imagine I might question him.
“I’m completely serious,” he says, “and I don’t think I appreciate your tone.”
I look at Anita, then at Norcross.
“You guys are supportive of this?”
“We are,” Anita says.
“Let me tell you a little story,” I say to Anita. “There was a guy in this office a few years back, before you moved up here. His name was Deacon Baker, and he used to do things similar to this. He’d indict people for murder without sufficient evidence, overcharge people, and he filed a death penalty notice on nearly every murder case, intending to use it as leverage. And do you know what I used to do? I used to practice criminal defense, and I made a pretty handsome living taking the tactics he used and shoving them up his stupid, fat ass.”
Mooney clears his throat.
“I hope you’re not insinuating that I’m stupid,” he says.
“What you’re proposing is completely irrational. If I understand your summary of the evidence, you have exactly nothing. Zero. You have a young man who you suspect may be the killer. Your theory of motive is that he killed Judge Green to avenge his father’s suicide. One witness saw a white car in the neighborhood; another saw a white car a mile or two from the neighborhood, but we don’t even know whether it’s the same car. Your suspect owns a white car. So what? Can either of your witnesses identify the car? Did they get a look at the driver? You have no weapon, no blood, no prints, no hair, no fiber, no witness to the crime, and no incriminating statements from anyone. Like I said, you have nothing.”
“His mother was totally uncooperative,” Mooney says. “He’s left the state, and he ran from the police in Durham this morning. This is all circumstantial evidence of guilt.”
“No, it isn’t,” I say curtly. I’m frustrated and beginning to grow angry. I look at Anita and Norcross, both of whom have suddenly taken an intense interest in the floor. “It’s diddly-squat. First of all, he had every right to leave the state. From what you’ve told me, no one has even talked to him. How’s he even supposed to know he’s a suspect?”
“His mother must have warned him,” Mooney says. “The neighbor saw him come and go in a hurry.”
“And you think that’s evidence of guilt in a murder? Come on, Lee. You’re not that obtuse. And didn’t you just tell me the police executed a search warrant on the mother’s home this morning and the kid’s apartment in Durham and didn’t find a damned thing? You’ll be lucky if they don’t sue you.”
“This is what we do,” Mooney says. “You convene the grand jury. You bring Agent White in, and you have her lay everything out: the feud between Judge Green and Ray Miller, the suicide, finding the judge’s body the morning after the funeral, the fact that Tommy Miller didn’t come home that night. She tells them about the mother’s slamming the door in her face, how she won’t give them any information at all. She tells them about the neighbor who saw Tommy come home early that morning and then leave quickly. She tells them about Tommy running from the police in Durham, how his car seems to have disappeared into thin air, and how he’s now a fugitive.”
He obviously hasn’t listened to a word I’ve said.
“A fugitive? How can he be a fugitive if you don’t have an arrest warrant?”
“He’s wanted for questioning.”
“You’ve just said he’s a suspect in a murder. He doesn’t have to answer any questions, remember?”
“Stop fencing with me,” Mooney says. “Do what I say and the grand jury will indict him. We’ll put out a nationwide alert. We’ll have him in custody in a couple of days, tops.”
“And then what? You know as well as I do that you won’t be able to present any of this garbage to a trial jury. None of it’s admissible. If he keeps his mouth shut, you’ll all end up looking like fools.”
“He’s a kid, for God’s sake,” Mooney says. “These agents are pros. He’ll cave during interrogation.”
“No way. I don’t want any part of this.”
I stand up and start to walk toward the door, muttering under my breath. I’ve seen Mooney do some idiotic things over the past few years, but this tops them all.
“Now you wait just one damned minute,” I hear Mooney say behind me. The tone of his voice is threatening, and I stop and turn to face him full on. I can sense where this is going, but I don’t care.
“It isn’t a request,” he says. “You’re going to take this case to the grand jury. You’re going to present the evidence through Agent White, and you’re going to come back with an indictment.”
“No, I’m not. If you’re absolutely bent on doing this, do it yourself.” I stare him directly in the eye, knowing what has to come next.
“I’m your superior,” Mooney says. “You work for me. You’re refusing a direct order in front of two witnesses. This is gross insubordination.”
“I don’t care who you are. I don’t care what your title is. This isn’t what I signed up for. I’m not going to be a part of a railroad job.”
“Then you leave me no choice. Pack up your things. You’re fired.”
I turn toward the door to leave, but I can’t resist saying one last thing to him. I haven’t been able to shake the feeling I had yesterday when he mentioned Hannah in the past tense. I turn back around.
“By the way,” I say, “Rafael Ramirez says somebody wanted Hannah Mills dead, and he says he knows who.” It’s a small lie. My mother would have called it a little white lie.
“He’ll tell you who it is if you let him out of jail.”
PART 3
36
Hannah Mills, the former Katie Dean, looked up at the waterfall and wondered what she was doing. It was the first time in years she’d been hiking, and sitting at the base of Red Fork Falls in Unicoi County, she remembered why. The memories were inevitable: the long days in the Great Smoky Mountains National Park, the beauty of the dozens of cascades and falls she’d visited, the stands of old-growth timber. But those memories triggered others, others she’d tried to keep at bay.
Pretending Aunt Mary and Luke never existed was the easiest way to get by. She’d learned to put them, along with Lottie, the farm, the animals, all of it, out of her mind. It was as though everything had turned into clouds and drifted slowly away on the breeze.
After the fire-which Hannah couldn’t remember at all-her life had spun out of control for a while. She found herself with a new name, living in Salt Lake City in a downtown apartment, a few blocks from the giant Mormon Tabernacle. The agents in Knoxville had told her it was the only way they could ensure her safety, and at the time, she hadn’t the will to resist. An FBI agent named Fritz became her new best friend in Utah, but Hannah quickly grew homesick for the purple-shrouded mountains she loved so much. She packed what few things she had one day, got on a bus, and never looked back.
She wound up in Knoxville, alone and confused. The only person she had any regular contact with was Agent Rider, who, upon her return to Knoxville, had given her enough money to get a small apartment and survive until she could get on her feet. Then, a couple of weeks after she returned, Agent Rider was contacted by a lawyer from Gatlinburg who wanted to meet with Hannah. Agent Rider arranged the meeting, and it was there that Hannah learned that Aunt Mary had made her not only the executor of her estate, but a beneficiary of her will. Hannah and Lottie were each to receive one half of Aunt Mary’s money-just over three hundred thousand dollars each that had been invested in U.S. Treasury bills. Hannah also inherited the farm, but the lawyer told her that Mr. Torbett, the neighbor, had made an offer to buy it. The lawyer suggested Hannah accept the offer, and she did. She had no desire to return.
Hannah spent months in a fog, staring at the walls of her small apartment, lying in bed for days at a time, unwilling and unable to start over. She cursed God, or fate, or destiny, or whatever force it was that had selected her to bear the burden of so much pain and so much shame. She didn’t care about the money. It had no real value or meaning to her, especially considering how she’d come to acquire it.
It was Agent Rider who’d finally helped Hannah crawl out of the depths of her despair. He came by her apartment regularly and finally talked her into seeing a psychiatrist, a woman named Mattie Rhea. Dr. Rhea had
