I slid the items across the table and looked them over.
”Why’d you take this picture?” I said, holding up the photo of Angel. ”And what’s it doing in your evidence file?”
”Why the fuck do you think I took it? Look at her.
Somebody cracked her in the face. We’re gonna show it to the jury.”
”Any proof of how she got the bruise? What if she slipped on a banana peel?”
”She can explain it on the witness stand.”
” If the judge lets it in.” I tossed the photo back onto the table. ”I’m going to file a motion to keep it out.”
”You see?” Landers said. ”That’s exactly what I’m talking about. This photograph was taken two days after the murder. Her hair was found on the dead guy, and she just happens to have a bruise on her face. The logical conclusion is that she got the bruise during a struggle with the victim. But then some asshole like you comes along and wants to keep the jury from finding out about it.”
”Is this all you’ve got?” I said. ”I see some photos of Tester, a photo of what looks like a shriveled penis, a photo of Angel, a couple of hairs, a couple of lab reports, and some bank records showing that Tester withdrew money from the strip club’s ATM.
Is that it?”
”It’ll be enough to convict that little bitch of murder.”
”It’s not enough to convict her of simple assault.”
”That’s what I like to hear,” Landers said. ”You just keep thinking that way.”
”The evidence in this case is as weak as any I’ve ever seen.”
”Since when is DNA evidence weak?”
”Her hair probably got on him while he was groping her at the club,” I said.
”Maybe. You can go ahead and try to sell that to the jury, but the fact is that her hair was found on his corpse in his room.”
”It’s not enough.”
”Our witness says your girl and Barlowe followed the victim out of the club that night. They were the last people to see him alive.”
”Your witness is a lying prostitute with a drug problem.”
”And your client is a mystery woman who was working in a strip club. A stranger. Not from around here. Jury won’t exactly love her, especially when they see that bruise on her face.”
”You don’t have a murder weapon or a motive.”
”Don’t need either one. We’ve got enough circumstantial evidence to get a conviction. And you know what? I think something else will come up before this is over.”
”Something else already has come up. You’ve heard of Virgil Watterson, haven’t you? I think you talked to him this morning.”
There was a long, tense silence.
”How the hell would you know that?”
”He called me first. He described what he saw on the bridge that night. He said he thinks you guys arrested the wrong person. Just trying to do the right thing, you know? I told him he should call you and tell you what he saw and maybe you’d try to make it right. He called me back after he talked to you.
Said you didn’t sound all that interested in his information. I should’ve known better.”
”He’s not reliable. He waited two months before he even bothered to call.”
”He’s worried about his marriage.”
”It was dark out there, after midnight. No way he could have made an identification.”
”He saw Erlene. She was alone. He saw the Corvette. It’s consistent with what Julie Hayes is saying.
What the hell’s the matter with you? You guys should be taking a closer look at Erlene Barlowe.”
”And you should mind your own fucking shop. I don’t need your advice.”
”So you’re going to ignore him.”
”Ignore who? Far as I’m concerned, he never called.”
Someone banged on the door, and it opened. A police officer named Harold ”Bull” Deakins walked in. He and Landers were drinking buddies, legendary carousers. Deakins’s nickname was well deserved. His shoulders barely fit through the door.
”They told me I’d find you down here,” he said to Landers. Landers’s eyes didn’t move, and neither did mine. Deakins stopped short. ”Everything all right with you boys? Are we playing nice?” His voice did nothing to break the tension.
”Your buddy and I were just talking about arresting innocent people,” I said, still locked onto Landers. He stared back, saying nothing.
”Watterson saw Erlene Barlowe on the bridge that night,” I said. ”She was alone. My client wasn’t around. You know what that means, don’t you?”
”It doesn’t mean shit. For all I know, you put the guy up to it. For all I know, you paid him to say he saw the Corvette.”
”Sorry,” I said, ”that’s more along the lines of something you’d do.”
”You know something, Dillard? You’re wasting your breath talking to me. My job was to investigate this case and make an arrest, and that’s what I did.
Now my job is to go to trial, testify, and make sure your client gets what she deserves-a fucking needle in her arm.”
He started packing up his little box as Deakins loomed over my shoulder. I turned to leave. As I was walking out the door, I stopped and faced Landers. He finished putting items in the box, picked it up off the table, and looked at me.
”She’s innocent,” I said. ”She didn’t kill anybody.”
His shoulders lifted the slightest bit. What was that? A shrug?
”Are you listening to me? She didn’t kill anybody. ”
He knew it. The sonofabitch knew. He looked back down at the table, and I walked out the door.
June 25
1:00 p.m.
I’d been going down to the jail to see Angel once a week, but the conversations I’d had with her were more personal than professional. I’d already heard her version of what happened the night Tester was killed, so I spent the time trying to get some background information out of her. She was reluctant, but during the second visit she decided she trusted me enough to tell me her real name and where she was from.
I gave the information to Diane Frye. She’d been working for weeks, and I’d also sent Tom Short, a forensic psychiatrist, down to the jail to interview Angel three times. I set up meetings with both of them on the same afternoon.
Diane had traveled to Oklahoma and Ohio, running down witnesses and documents. I was anxious to hear what she had to say. When I walked in, the conference room table was covered in papers.
”Your chickie is a ghost,” Diane said in her Tennessee drawl. She was nearly sixty, but she styled her light brown hair short and spiked. She was wearing her perpetual smile and her favorite casual outfit, a bright orange Tennessee Volunteers T-shirt-she was a rabid fan-with khaki shorts that exposed knobby knees and varicose veins, and orange high-top Converse basketball shoes.
”No Social Security number, no driver’s license, no school records, no credit history, no nothing. She doesn’t exist, at least not on paper. But I’ve talked to everybody I could find and I think I’ve got everything pretty well organized. At least you’ll know a little more about what you’re dealing with.”
Diane said Angel was born in Columbus, Ohio, on March 15, 1989, to a young woman named Grace Rodriguez. Her biological mother gave her up for adoption the same day to the Columbus Freewill Baptist Home for Children. Angel was adopted five months later by Airman First Class Thomas Rhodes and his wife, Betty. They named her Mary Ann Rhodes.
Diane had flown out to Oklahoma City to talk to Angel’s adopted parents. They told Diane that when they adopted Mary, they thought they were unable to have children of their own, but Ms. Rhodes became pregnant a year later. She subsequently had three more children.
”They said they treated her like a princess,” Diane said. ”The mother called her a thieving, ungrateful little wench. She said her husband kept a stash of cash in a box in the ceiling, and Angel apparently cleaned it out before she left. But I always leave a card and tell people if they have any other information to give me a call. A couple hours after I left, I got a call on my cell phone. It was one of their daughters, a seventeen-year-old named Rebecca. She was scared to death and I didn’t get to talk to her for long, but she said her parents didn’t tell me the whole story.”