So much for honesty. Their case was anything but strong, especially now that Julie Hayes was dead.
”What do you have in mind?” I said.
”Twenty years, second-degree murder.”
”Not a chance. Not on the evidence I’ve seen.
Surely you didn’t bring me all the way down here for that.”
”Make a counteroffer,” Baker said.
”I’ve given it some thought, too,” I said. ”The way I see it, you had a weak circumstantial case before your most important witness died, and you’ve got an unappealing victim. You’re going to have to spend a great deal of time at trial proving that your preacher went to a strip club. Then I assume you’re going to try to prove he solicited a prostitute, since you’re going to introduce evidence about the money he withdrew from his bank account right before he left.
I don’t think the jury will have much sympathy for him, and I’ll do everything I can to make sure they don’t.”
”Let’s assume he was, as you say, there to solicit a prostitute,” Martin said. ”That doesn’t mean he deserved to be brutally murdered and mutilated.
The jury is going to want to see someone pay for that.”
”I’m sure they will,” I said. ”But not Angel. I don’t think she did it, and you can’t prove she did. Barlowe could have killed him, any of the other girls at the club could have killed him, he could have gone somewhere else and picked up someone else, or someone could have been waiting for him when he got back to the room. Hell, it could have been anybody, and you know it.”
”Nobody else’s hair was found in that room,”
Baker said. ”Only your client’s.”
”If they’d found the hair in the bathroom or on the headboard or even on the floor it would be different. But they found it on his clothing. It’s entirely possible that her hair passed to him when she was serving him booze at the club and he was rubbing up against her. And the only way you could possibly make the jury even suspect Angel was at the motel was through Julie Hayes, and she’s gone.”
”We have plenty of other evidence,” Baker said.
”I know what other evidence you have, Deacon.
And I know what I have. I was planning to surprise you with this, but since we’re not posturing, I have a witness who says he saw a woman fitting Erlene Barlowe’s description on Pickens Bridge around midnight the night of the murder. His name is Virgil Watterson. I believe you’ve heard of him.”
Baker flushed. It apparently hadn’t entered his feeble mind that Watterson might take his testimony to the defense attorney, and Landers obviously hadn’t said anything about our conversation at the courthouse.
”That testimony has no credibility,” he said. ”All the witness saw was a woman on a bridge in the middle of the night. He can’t make a positive ID and he wasn’t even sure about the color of the vehicle.”
”Bullshit,” I said. ”You know as well as I do that if anyone from that club killed Tester, it was most likely Erlene Barlowe.” I felt a twinge of guilt as I said it. After all, Erlene had paid me a handsome sum of cash, but my job was to represent Angel. I couldn’t concern myself with Erlene.
”I can’t prove that,” Baker said.
”You can’t prove Angel killed him either.”
”So where does that leave us?” Baker looked like he was ready to say ”uncle.”
”We’re willing to roll the dice.”
”What would it take to resolve this case without a trial? Make some kind of reasonable counteroffer.”
This was the tricky part. If Angel was innocent, I wanted her to walk away without any strings, but the only way to do that was to win in front of a jury, and winning murder cases in front of juries was easier said than done. I also knew Deacon. Like most prosecutors, he wasn’t going to admit that he’d made a mistake and dismiss the case outright. I knew I’d have to give him something in order to make a deal and remove the risk that Angel might be found guilty and sentenced to life in prison or death.
”She might be willing to enter a no-contest plea to some offense so long as you agree to probation,” I said. ”She’s already served more jail time than she should have.”
”You don’t really think she’s innocent, do you?”
Frankie said.
”As a matter of fact, I do. She has no history of criminal behavior, no drug or alcohol use, no history of psychological problems”-a white lie-”and she seems very gentle. I don’t think she did it. And I’ll tell you something else. She’s going to be a damned good witness. You know how pretty she is, and she comes across as sincere.”
”Probation is impossible,” Baker said. ”I can’t reduce a death penalty case to a probatable offense. I’d look like a fool.”
”You can sell it, Deacon,” I said. ”Think about it.
You announce to the court that an important witness has passed away and that the investigation has revealed some things you can’t divulge, but those things convince you that the plea agreement best serves the interests of justice. You tell the press your job as district attorney is to see that justice is done, not just to try to win at all costs. Then you build a case on Erlene Barlowe and get it right. You could come out of it looking like a hero, and believe me, you won’t hear a bit of criticism out of me. I’ll tell the press the district attorney has done the right thing and that you acted in good faith throughout the entire course of this tragic situation. I’ll publicly sing your praises a couple of weeks before the election.”
Baker sat back and removed the cigar from his lips.
He looked at Martin and then at me. A crooked smile began to form on his lips.
”You’re devious,” he said.
”I’m just trying to grease the wheel,” I said. ”Winwin. My girl goes home, and you look like a good guy. We’ll take three years of probation on aggravated assault. You’ll have her under your thumb for three years. If she screws up, she serves the sentence.”
”I have to think about it,” Baker said.
”What are you going to do about Tester’s son?”
I said.
”Screw him. From what I hear, he got fired from his job at the sheriff’s department. Besides, he’s not a registered voter in this county. I’m not even going to tell him about this.”
I stood to leave. ”I don’t want to sound arrogant, Deacon, but if you take this to trial, you’re going to lose. She didn’t kill him.”
Baker was silent, apparently lost in thought.
”We’ll see about that,” Martin said.
”Call me and let me know what you decide,” I said. ”I’ll be getting ready for trial.”
The call came two hours later.
”She can plead to aggravated assault as Range I and take the minimum, three years,” Frankie Martin said.
”It will have to be a no-contest plea, and you’ll have to agree to probation,” I said.
”Fine.”
”Deacon is going to sell it?”
”He’s already working the phones,” Martin said.
”He’ll hold a press conference after the plea and explain why we agreed to this.”
I hung up the phone and went down to talk to my client.
July 14
9:00 a.m.
As Judge Green made his entrance and sat down beneath his portrait, I glanced around the courtroom.
The jury box was once again filled with members of the media who’d been called by Deacon Baker. I was edgy and tired. I’d spent most of Sunday night troubled by Angel’s willingness to take this deal. I told myself that the plea took nearly all of the risk off the table, guaranteed her release from custody, and spared her the ordeal of a trial. But I also knew that if I’d been accused of a crime I hadn’t committed, nothing would persuade me to stand up and accept a three-year sentence, probation or no probation. Angel hadn’t needed much persuasion.
”I understand we have a plea in case number 35666, State of Tennessee versus Angel Christian,” Judge Green said. ”Bring the defendant in.”