“It has to,” he said. “This could be our one shot before the trial. Once the DA sees we’re fighting back, he might ask for a gag order. Or maybe the judge will decide to impose one on his own. In any case, we have to swing for the fence.”
At one-thirty, I pulled into the garage at Riverview Tower. Upstairs, Chloe greeted me warmly. “You ready for your close-up?” she said.
“Don’t rub it in,” I said. “I really hate doing this.”
“I know,” she said. “Not everybody basks in the limelight like Mr. DeVriess does. But this will help things, it really will. I have a friend who works at the
“
“We’ve had high-profile cases a time or two before,” she said. “We don’t call people at the national level very often, but when we do, they know it’s a good story.”
“Lord, what have I done? I should never have let him talk me into this.”
“Yes you should. Can I tell you something, just between us?” I nodded warily. “If you tell Mr. DeVriess I said it, I’ll get fired.”
“My lips are sealed,” I said, holding up three fingers in the Boy Scout sign.
“I don’t always respect our clients, and I don’t always like what Mr. DeVriess does for them. But you’re different. And he knows it. What he’s doing might help save you.” She looked suddenly shy. “It might help save him, too. Does that make any sense?”
“You mean make up for some of his other cases? Redemption?” She nodded. “Stranger things have happened,” I said. “Especially lately.” I heard DeVriess’s office door open and his Italian shoes clicking down the hall. I held a finger to my lips and gave Chloe a conspiratorial wink. She winked back. I hoped the image of her wink, and the generous impulse behind it, could carry me through the surreal gamesmanship of the next hour.
“Keep up,” Burt said as the elevator reached the lobby. “Walk briskly, with purpose. Smile, but not too big, and nod occasionally to acknowledge the cameras. Hold up a deferential, apologetic hand every third or fourth question.” With those instructions, we pushed out the lobby door onto the sidewalk of Gay Street, into a waiting mob of reporters. I saw cameras from all the local TV stations, as well as CNN and Fox News. I counted a dozen or more still photographers, too, as well as what I estimated at close to a hundred spectators. Where had they all come from? And why?
I followed Burt’s instructions to the letter, partly in hopes of creating the desired effect, and partly to have something to do besides flee or hide my face like a minister arrested in a prostitution sting. Burt brushed off all questions on our way into the City County Building, pausing only to say, “As soon as we file this motion to dismiss, we’ll have a statement, and we’ll distribute copies of the exculpatory evidence we’re basing the motion on.”
It took a grand total of sixty seconds to file the motion in the court clerk’s office. The staff there gave Burt a look of weary forbearance-they had been through this routine with him countless times before-but I noticed several of them eyeing me closely. As we left the building, Burt led the media horde to a set of steps at one side of the plaza, where he-and I-could ascend and display ourselves to better advantage. The clamor of questions was almost incomprehensible. Burt held up both hands, signaling for silence, and as if on cue, a thicket of microphone booms swung into position above his head. “We have just filed a motion to dismiss all charges against Dr. Bill Brockton,” he said. “We have dramatic new evidence that proves conclusively-contrary to what the prosecution claims-that it was
Burt wasn’t quite finished. “We call on the court to dismiss all charges,” he said in a voice worthy of the pulpit. “We call on the district attorney to stop using Dr. Brockton as a scapegoat. And we call on the Knoxville Police Department to find this mystery truck, and the real killer, and bring him to justice for this terrible crime.” With that ringing pronouncement, he grabbed my elbow and practically dragged me back to his office.
The event was simplistically scripted, it was cynically staged, and it was brilliantly effective. During the five- thirty newscast, which I watched in the living room of my own house, I flipped back and forth among all the Knoxville stations, and caught the phrases “mystery truck,” “mystery man,” and “mystery killer” more times than I could count.
We hadn’t won yet-not by a long shot-but DeVriess was right: it was time to start acting like an innocent man, and he had just made that possible for me.
CHAPTER 41
IT WAS TEN O’CLOCK when my cellphone rang. I checked to see who was calling, and was puzzled to see a 423 area code. Chattanooga. “Hello,” I said warily.
“Dr. Bill? Hey, I see you on TV this evening.”
“Well, hello, Miss Georgia. I didn’t know I made the Chattanooga news, too.”
“Naw, baby, I see you on the Knoxville news. I be right here in the same town as you. My cellphone just think it’s still in Chattanooga. How you doin’, Dr. Bill?”
“How am I? Well, let’s see,” I said. “The woman I was falling in love with has been killed, I’ve been charged with murder, I’ve been barred from the university, and my grandkids scream when they see me now. On the bright side, my sleazy defense lawyer is the lead story on all the local TV stations to night, and a video expert can prove it wasn’t my truck that drove into the Body Farm the night Jess’s body was put there. So I suppose things could be worse.”
“We can’t bring Miss Jessamine back, Dr. Bill, but we gon’ clear up all this other mess. You wait and see.”
I wasn’t sure what part Miss Georgia saw herself playing in setting the record straight, but I appreciated her faith. “I hope you’re right, Georgia,” I said. “How about you?”
“Well, less see,” she mimicked. “My weenie and my ’nads done been chopped off, I got a hundred stitches in my bottom, and I done traded in my little silk thong for a big ol’ Depends. But I be a real woman now, Dr. Bill, so I be just fine. My ass hurt like a motherfucker, but iss a good hurt. I be going home in a couple days, doctor say.”
“Congratulations,” I said. “I’m glad you’ve finally got what you’ve been wanting for so long.”
Just then my landline rang. “You need to answer that, honey-lamb?”
“I’ll let the machine get it,” I said. “Probably a reporter, or somebody phoning to call me a murderer or an infidel.” When my greeting finished playing, though, I was startled to hear Garland Hamilton’s voice. “Bill? Are you there? It’s Garland. If you’re there, Bill, please pick up.”
“Georgia? Sorry, I need to take this.” I laid down the cell and grabbed for the receiver.
“Guess you’re not there. Listen, I’ve got something that sheds some new light on Jess Carter’s murder,” Garland was saying, “and I thought-”
I snatched up the receiver. “Garland? I’m here. What have you got? Tell me.”
“Oh, Bill, I’m so glad you’re there. Hey, congratulations, by the way-I saw the news about the surveillance video,” he said. “That will help your case enormously.”
“Thanks,” I said, “I hope you’re right. Now tell me what you’ve found out.”
“I don’t think I should over the phone,” he said. “Is it too late to come see you? Are you already in
