A Specter of Justice (12 page)

I retrieved Newly's first.

“Sam, give me a call when you get this message. I need to alert you to a new development.”

“Sounds promising,” Nakayla said. “Call him back.”

“Let me check the other one first.”

I pressed playback on the touch screen.

“Sam.” Hewitt's voice was whispery and strained. “The fat's in the fire now. Newland's taken me into custody and I'm going to be arraigned on two counts of homicide. Consider yourself on the clock.”

Chapter Twelve

Sunday afternoon at the Asheville police station is normally as exciting as watching grass grow. This Sunday, as Nakayla and I entered Pack Square, the parking spaces were full and two TV news trucks were angled against the curb with their microwave antennae extended skyward.

“Word must be out,” Nakayla said.

I'd opted not to return Newly's phone call. Instead, I wanted to see him face-to-face. The homicide detective would probably stonewall any information behind the “I can't comment about an ongoing investigation” phrase, but at least I would be able to read his body language.

“I wonder if Hewitt will have a fool for a client,” Nakayla said.

She referenced the old adage that an attorney who represents himself has a fool for a client. Hewitt considered himself a cut above the other defense lawyers in town. And would any of them even want a client as high-maintenance as I suspected Hewitt would be?

“Maybe I should call Cory,” Nakayla suggested.

“She's only a paralegal.”

“But Hewitt might listen to her. If not Cory, then certainly Shirley.”

“Start with Shirley. She won't take any of Hewitt's crap.”

“Then let me take your car back to the office,” she said. “You can call me when you've got information or just meet me there.”

I stopped in front of the station and left the CR-V running. Nakayla gave me a kiss as we passed in front of the bumper. “Good luck,” she said. “I'll be anxious to hear.”

I opened the door and stepped into a buzz of conversation. At least fifteen reporters jammed the small waiting area. Everyone turned to check out the new arrival, and the buzz ceased.

A woman I recognized as a field reporter for the FOX TV affiliate was first to come at me. “Sam, Sam, can you confirm that Hewitt Donaldson's been arrested?”

Her question spurred the others into action, and a chorus of variations on the same theme resounded through the room.

I smiled and said the first thing that popped in my mind. “The Lord be with you.”

That halted the verbal onslaught for about a half a second.

I pushed through toward the officer on-duty who greeted the public from behind a glass window more like a movie ticket booth. “I'm just here to settle up some parking tickets. I didn't realize I was so news worthy.”

The policeman, Ralph Cochran, knew me, and he was clearly amused by my predicament. “You're smart to turn yourself in, Sam.” He spoke loud enough for everyone to hear. “The traffic division is waiting.”

The reporters grumbled because they knew we were jerking them around. Ralph pressed a button and a click sounded as the security door deadbolt retracted.

“He's in the pen,” Ralph said.

Someone outside the system overhearing that remark would assume the duty officer was talking about Hewitt being in a holding pen, or in a penitentiary. I knew Ralph told me where to find Detective Newland. He was in the bullpen, the area of shared desks where cops most commonly share information. I found Newly at its heart, the coffee machine.

Although he still looked whipped, Newly had at least shaved and changed clothes from yesterday.

He tipped his cup to me. “Did you dress up just for me?”

“No. For Pastor Brooks at the Church of the Righteous.”

He turned toward the hall leading deeper into the complex. “Grab a mug of this rot gut and come to an interview room. You can tell me about the good preacher's sermon.”

I surveyed the bullpen where at least five cops were either on the phone or a computer.

“Are they working the case?” I asked Newly.

“Yeah. At the request of the chief and Carter.”

“D.A. Carter's involved already?”

Newly's eyes narrowed. “Let's talk in an interview room?”

“Where's Efird?”

“He's gone to talk with Molly's sister. I suggested someone a little more removed from Molly do it.” Newly shrugged. “But Tuck's hardheaded.”

I said nothing. If things had ended badly between Efird and Molly, then Newly's suggestion should have been more of an order. But, they were partners, and I understood why Newly wanted to avoid a confrontation this early in the game.

“Okay.” I filled a chipped mug with their black poison and followed Newly down the hall to the first room on the left.

He went immediately to his customary side of the table, positioning himself between me and the door.

I slipped into the chair opposite him. “Do I need a lawyer?”

“Not yet. Especially since I'm going to deny we ever had this conversation.”

I took a swallow of the bitter, scorched coffee to buy a few seconds as my mind raced to figure out where Newly was going. I set the mug on the table and leaned forward. “I'm working for Hewitt. He's hired Nakayla and me to find the murderer. If you think it's Hewitt, then we're already at cross purposes.”

“Are you claiming attorney-client privileges with the attorney as the client?”

His question stumped me. Hewitt was my client and as a private investigator, I didn't enjoy the same legal status as a lawyer. He'd hired me. If he was representing himself and he drew the distinction of Hewitt the lawyer and Hewitt the defendant, then working for Hewitt the case attorney would stand a better chance of shielding me from a prosecutorial subpoena. Better still, Hewitt and I should communicate only verbally, and anything written would be done so by Hewitt as part of his attorney work for his client, Hewitt Donaldson. But since Hewitt and I hadn't spoken about the best way to keep our communication confidential, I was very leery of saying anything to Newly.

“I'm not claiming anything because all he's told me is that you've taken him into custody.”

“And that's when he engaged you to find the killer?”

“No. That happened yesterday right after he learned Lenore had been murdered.”

Newly cocked his head. “Before he was taken into custody?”

I knew I'd slipped up somehow. “Yes. But all he said was find who killed Lenore.”

Newly took a sip of coffee and then puffed out his cheeks to cool his mouth. “Then you weren't working with him in his role as a defense attorney for a client. So, why didn't he trust the police to handle it?”

“Like me, he knew Tuck Efird had an emotional breakup with Molly Staton.”

“Molly isn't Lenore. Why didn't he hire you then? You saw him earlier Saturday morning.”

In trying to dance around my conversation with Hewitt, I'd managed to waltz myself right into a corner. Well, I guessed Newly had something substantial on Hewitt and the most likely culprit was the proliferation of Hewitt's fingerprints throughout Lenore's house.

“Look, Newly. I don't know what's going on. What Hewitt told me was that he'd been dating Lenore Carpenter. He was visibly shaken when he learned of her death. You were there. You saw him. He's convinced you'll look for evidence to tag him for the crimes and not vigorously pursue all leads. I don't think he's worried about being convicted, but he is worried that the real killer will get away.”

“What did you tell him?”

“To see you immediately.”

Newly visibly relaxed, as if my answer broke away some barrier between us. “He did. Yesterday afternoon.”

“Now you know everything I know.”

“No. I know more than you know.” The homicide detective got up from the table. “Stay put.” He walked to the door and slid a brass panel that changed the word “Vacant” to “Occupied” on the door's exterior. Then he turned off the lights.

The two-way mirror on the wall facing me became a window with enough transparency to see a few lights glowing on the other side. Newly cupped his hands around his eyes and leaned close to the glass to better scan the adjacent observation room. Then he turned around.

“Change seats with me so I can see if anyone comes in there.”

I pushed my mug of coffee across the table and moved to the other side. “What's going on?”

Newly slid his chair so I wouldn't block his view of the now transparent mirror. “I told you yesterday I would follow the evidence wherever it leads, even if it's to my partner.”

“I know. And I said I was sorry for doubting you.”

He lowered his voice to a whisper. “Now the evidence is leading to Hewitt Donaldson, and where some of my colleagues might be reluctant to investigate a cop, there is no such reluctance when it comes to investigating a defense attorney who uses every trick in the book, and then some, to get his clients off.”

“I know that too.”

“Well, as much as I might be at odds with Mr. Donaldson, I'm not one to jump ahead of the process.”

I listened between the words for what Newly was telling me. “You didn't want to take him into custody, did you?”

“No. Things are a little too pat for my taste. Too circumstantial. But Carter overrode me. And Tuck, well, my partner's too close to this one, and too ready to bring Donaldson down.”

“D.A. Carter enjoys the headlines,” I said.

“Especially when we're making national news with this one,” Newly agreed. “Carter's become a politician first and a prosecutor second.”

I wondered why Newly was telling me this. Maybe he wanted to make sure he held my respect. We'd had our differences, but when his former partner was murdered, Nakayla and I uncovered the killer. That earned us unofficial admittance as good guys in the police world, and the Asheville department extended us every courtesy they could.

I said nothing, waiting on him to explain why he was whispering to me in a darkened interview room.

“So, I don't want the murders of Molly Staton and Lenore Carpenter to become Carter's political agenda or Tuck's personal agenda.”

“I don't either, but what can I do?”

Newly leaned across the table.

“Donaldson has hired you to investigate. His goal is two-fold—first, find the killer and second, clear his own name of what will likely be a double homicide indictment. I don't give a rat's ass about clearing Donaldson, but I do want to apprehend the real murderer. You can focus elsewhere while I'm ordered to concentrate on Donaldson.”

Hewitt had been incorrect about the police becoming fixated on him as the sole suspect. It was the D.A. driving that agenda. Newly must be under a lot of pressure if he felt the need to confide in me.

“What about discovery?” I asked. “Is there funny business going on?”

“I don't think Carter will risk withholding exculpatory evidence, and so far I'm not aware of any. But he'll play tight with everything he can and try to surprise Donaldson whenever he can. You know as well as I do every piece of information is a possible connection to something else, something that could be exculpatory but will never come to light unless it's pursued.”

“You're giving me access to your case file?”

“I'm giving you my trust in exchange for yours.”

I laughed. “Newly, you know when someone says trust me, it's the first sign not to trust him.”

Newly's expression remained grave. “Trust but verify was President Reagan's motto. He was before your time, but it's good advice. Trust me to share what information I can, and you can verify its authenticity and follow it wherever you want. I'm trusting you not to use this information in any way that blows back on me. And I'm trusting you to share any leads you uncover, especially as they relate to Tuck. I don't want any surprises.”

Newly's motive became crystal clear. D.A. Carter and probably his police chief were boxing him into building the case against Hewitt. He knew Nakayla and I would be turning over every rock we could find in an effort to exonerate the lawyer. Newly was willing to give us some rocks to lift if we told him what we found beneath them. The last thing he wanted was to be blindsided by a partner who'd committed two murders. I didn't believe Tuck Efird was capable of such a crime, just as Newly had serious doubts about Hewitt Donaldson's guilt. Both of us were going out on a limb exchanging our information this way, but I was willing to go along.

“All right. It's a deal.” I stuck out my hand and he gave it a firm squeeze. “Now, do you want to hear about my adventure at the Church of the Righteous?”

“In a moment. But first you need to know where things stand here. Hewitt is demanding a probable cause hearing. It's his right and he knows his rights. He'll be confronted with the evidence we've unearthed so far.”

“Which is?”

“His fingerprints all over Lenore Carpenter's home and on items used within the time window of Lenore's murder.”

“He told you that,” I said.

“Yes, he did. We also found his prints on her washing machine. Her missing gardening clothes and clothes of a different size that we believe belonged to Molly Staton had been run through a wash cycle.”

“Hewitt supposedly destroys DNA evidence while leaving his prints?”

Newly shrugged. “But we're not just talking about Lenore's house. We found a wheelchair in the back of his garage with soil samples that match Lenore's potting soil.”

That hit me like a slap in the face. Especially since I was the one who told them to look for a wheelchair. Without trying to sound defensive, I said, “Again, he doesn't deny spending time at her house.”

“Additional soil on the wheels that appears to match the mica-rich ground at Helen's Bridge.”

I said nothing.

“And then there's the photograph.”

“What photograph?” My stomach knotted because I knew I wasn't going to like the answer.

“That photographer who was on the scene when Molly's body was dropped from the bridge.”

“Collin McPhillips,” I said.

“Yes. He framed a vertical shot. The Japanese all had horizontal framing. As a result, his image includes the top of the bridge. One of the shots in his rapid-fire sequence shows the blur of Molly's body as it's being rolled over the bridge wall. It also shows the blur of a shoulder and a shirt. A Hawaiian shirt. A Hawaiian shirt in the same colors worn by Hewitt Donaldson on Friday night.”