“Are you accusing me of sexual discrimination and racism, Agent White? Are you suggesting that my decision to assign this case to you was motivated by your gender or the color of your skin?”
Anita knew she was on thin ice. She didn’t want to back down, but she loved the job and wanted to keep it. She chose her words carefully.
“What I’m saying is that you’ve treated me like an outcast since the first day I walked through this door. I find it hard to believe that you’ve suddenly decided I’m some kind of wonder woman.”
Harmon leaned back in his chair and began rocking back and forth. He closed his eyes and massaged his temples for a full thirty seconds before he spoke.
“I hope you understand that we’re both in a world of shit here,” he said. “I thought that since this judge had the reputation of being a first-class son of a bitch, nobody would pay much attention. I underestimated the political fallout. And you’re right. I assigned this murder investigation to you because I knew it was a shit case and I don’t like you. You’re cold, Agent White, and you think your shit doesn’t stink. But we’re stuck with each other. We’re grown-ups. We can agree to disagree.”
“Is that all? Can I go now?”
“You can go as soon as you tell me how you plan to nail the bastard who did this.”
“Honestly? Right now I have no idea. Perhaps you have some suggestions.”
“As a matter of fact, I do have a suggestion-one that might allow both of us to keep our jobs.”
35
I spend another half hour talking to Rider about Hannah Mills/Katie Dean, her background, and her tenuous connection to Ramirez. After an extra ten minutes of arguing, I finally talk him into sharing what he knows with Sheriff Bates. As I drive back to Jonesborough, I try several times to get ahold of Bates to let him know what I’ve found out and that he needs to talk to Rider, but he’s still not answering his cell. I stop and eat a quick lunch at a little diner called the Mountain View and get back to the office around twelve thirty. Rita’s out to lunch, along with everyone else, it seems, but as I walk past her desk and down the hall, I hear voices coming from Mooney’s office. One of them sounds like Anita White, so I decide to walk back and see what’s going on.
“Joe, come in, come in,” Mooney says when I appear in the doorway. He’s smiling broadly, which immediately makes me think he’s going to ask me for a favor. Anita is sitting across the desk from Mooney to his right, and Mike Norcross is across the desk and to his left. “We’re just having a little strategy session.”
“Making any progress on the judge?” I say to Anita.
“Doing what we can.”
“Any solid leads?”
“That’s what we were talking about,” Mooney interrupts. “We’d like to present some evidence to the grand jury, and you’re just the man to do it.”
“Really?” I’m immediately skeptical. He’s talking in his politician voice, a sure sign that reason is being thrown out the window. “What kind of evidence?”
“Evidence of interstate flight to avoid prosecution, evidence of obstruction of justice, evidence of murder.”
“I take it you have a suspect.” I wonder what Anita’s found out since yesterday, and I silently curse myself for not being more diligent about getting in touch with her.
Mooney motions to a chair in the corner. “Pull that chair around here. Let me bring you up to speed.”
I grab the chair, turn it around, and lean on the backrest. Mooney talks for ten or fifteen minutes, occasionally assisted by Anita. He gives me a detailed description of everything that’s been done in the investigation and the conclusions he’s drawn. By the time he’s finished, I’m quite certain he’s either making a sick joke or he’s gone completely insane.
“I want you to present all this to the grand jury and then persuade them to issue an indictment for first-degree murder,” Mooney says.
“You can’t be serious.”
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.