Proof of Innocence Read online

  “Call me Maggie, but I haven’t agreed. How can the man prosecuted for the first murder be involved in the investigation?”

  “Prosecuted and found not guilty,” he said.

  “Carson has to be a suspect for this murder. The prime suspect.”

  “No evidence against him, but I haven’t eliminated anybody.” He narrowed his eyes. “And let me be very clear. I’m leading this investigation.”

  “But—”

  “That’s not what I need you for. Listen, Dallas has me by the short-hairs and knows it. They recruited me from Richmond to run here. Took office four months ago. I’ve got to know if this murder is connected to the other one, and fast, but what do I have to work with?

  “My predecessor has dementia and judging by his reports he wasn’t right for years. The deputy who assisted him on that investigation died of cancer. The judge from that trial is grieving his daughter’s murder. That leaves crap reports and a transcript I don’t have time to read. You’ll help some, but, no offense, you don’t know this county any better than I know Los Angeles.

  “Dallas says he’ll help, but only if Carson’s included. What am I going to say? A lot of folks here think Carson never should have been charged — not all, but a lot. And he was acquitted. Now he’s a lawyer in good standing. So, I take the package deal, and ask for you to balance things out.

  “Another thing, Ms. Frye — you said Carson was prosecuted for the first murder. That’s jumping to a conclusion that this one’s a sequel. We don’t know that. Yet.” He stood, tucking the folder under his arm, and she also rose. “Look at it this way, if Carson is guilty, he’s where I’ve got two upstanding citizens watching him, including a hot-shot prosecutor from the big city.”

  “Monroe? He’s on the other side. Makes it two against one.”

  “I’d take those odds with you being the one. Or are you going to quit on me, leave it two against none?”

  “I haven’t decided.”

  “Decide fast. If you’re staying, we’re meeting at the high school at three-thirty to try to keep this coordinated, not leave gaps, not run over each other.”

  “One more thing, Sheriff. I intend to prosecute this case.”

  “We have to catch the sonuvabitch before anybody can prosecute. If there’s a conflict between my investigation and you possibly prosecuting later, you do what’s right for the investigation or I’ll throw you out of my county. There’re plenty who can prosecute a case — assuming we get the sonuvabitch — but you’re the only one who can give me the prosecution’s view on the Wade murder.”

  He was right.

  But another factor might push her toward the decision Gardner wanted her to make.

  She’d told herself for more than four years that the jury had spoken in the Carson case and that was all there was to it.

  That wasn’t all there was to it.

  Either she’d prosecuted the right man and got the wrong verdict or she’d prosecuted the wrong man and got the right verdict.

  Either way, a murderer went free and she was responsible.

  Again.

  * * * *

  From the shadowy back corner of Courtroom One, J.D. Carson squinted through hazy afternoon sunlight polishing the wooden benches and floor.

  The first time he’d been in this courtroom he hadn’t been old enough to go to school. He’d come to see if it was true his mama was going to jail.

  Many times after he’d sat back here, silently watching.

  Being on trial for murder he’d been in the same spot Nola Carson had routinely held.

  After he’d passed the bar, he’d sat in each seat in the jury box to know what they would see when he stood before them as an attorney. He’d even sat behind the bench, the best seat in the house.

  After that, J.D. thought he truly knew this courtroom. But he’d never seen it from where Margaret Ellen Frye stood now, dragging her knuckles across the aged wood of the prosecution table. Right where she’d stood four and a half years ago.

  One spot he’d missed.

  That was a mistake, and he couldn’t afford mistakes.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  2:27 p.m.

  “Papa?”

  Charlotte Blankenship Smith hadn’t called her father that since she was thirteen. Mama had been sick for a full year by then and relying on Charlotte for organizing, phone calls, checking on workmen — all that allowed the household to run and the entertaining to continue as befitted the judge’s position.

  Laurel, almost four years younger than her, had declared Papa was for babies. She’d called him Judge, and he’d liked it. Soon Charlotte had dropped Papa for Judge.

  He gave no sign of hearing Charlotte now, sitting in the darkened library, his head tipped, staring at the mahogany piecrust table beside his wing chair. The table needed dusting before allowing visitors in. The whole room did.

  He insisted she turn everyone away today. But Rambler Farm would soon be filled with people again, as it should be.

  “Judge?”

  He lifted his head slowly. “Charlotte. You’re here.”

  She had sat across from him for eight minutes.

  “Judge, we need to talk about the arrangements. The sheriff’s office says it will let us know as soon as the body can be released.” Dorrie at the sheriff’s office had also said that woman prosecutor who’d tried J.D. was back in town. A factor Charlotte would think about later. “If we make decisions now, everything can be ready.”

  He squeezed his eyes closed. “You do it, Charlotte. I … I can’t …” Tears slid from between his eyelids.

  “I’ll take care of it.” She patted his hand, feeling the raised veins and the nubs of the knuckles. “I’ll take care of everything.”

  She closed the door behind her, gathered her tablet and phone from her desk near the kitchen before heading to the sunroom. It was more efficient to keep her work tools here than at Second House where she and Ed lived, across the circular drive.

  She added a notation. While waiting for her father’s attention, she’d noticed the paneling on the library’s fireplace wall — original to the 1804 core of the house — needed lemon oil.

  Clouds’ shadows deepened the green of the velvet lawn. Crocuses bloomed around the base of the birdbath. Still wrapped tight, buds of daffodils and tulips stood tall. The azaleas would show well this year. By fall, mums planted last year should have caught hold for a good display, too.

  Summer was hardest. She’d have two plantings of annuals again to keep the beds fresh. Not wilted like they had been on that July day going on five years ago when Pan came by.

  To cry about her marriage to Rick Wade falling apart.

  Pan had married the hometown hero, the high school and college football star who had come home to his family’s businesses when he didn’t make it in the pros. Had come home to Bedhurst’s favorite daughter, the one everyone loved as soon as they set eyes on her. Sweet Pandora Addington.

  But when Pan’s ideal life was falling apart, she’d come to Charlotte.

  “It was so much simpler when we were all in school. You and me and Rick and Scott and J.D. and all the others. I miss those times,” Pan had said.

  Charlotte didn’t miss them. Not one bit.

  “Charlotte?”

  She jolted at Ed’s voice. She wasn’t used to him being here during a weekday.

  “Sorry, honey.” He sat beside her. “I didn’t mean to startle you. What are you doing? Can I do anything to help? Do you need anything in town?”

  “No, you can’t help.” Did he know the Frye woman was back? Was that why he wanted to go to town? “I’m planning the funeral.”

  Planning Laurel’s funeral, thinking about Pan.

  “Oh, Charlotte. Don’t worry, honey. They’ll catch him. They’ll catch whoever did this.”

  She focused on him. His eyes were red, his hair uncombed.

  He’d gone out with the search parties, of course. But now everyone knew where Laurel was. No more wondering
if she would be late. Or what she was doing or might do in the future. No more upset. It was all settled.

  * * * *

  J.D. had closed to within ten feet of the prosecution table when Maggie Frye pivoted. Controlled, but fast enough to make her collar-length hair swing. The flaps of her long raincoat opened, showing black slacks and dark green blouse.

  “Ms. Frye, Dallas sent me to make sure you have a place to stay tonight.”

  “Someone from my office is making arrangements.”

  “She tried. She called where you stayed before. But Paula had a knee replacement and she’s not open. Your assistant tried to reach you, but reception can be spotty. The sheriff’s office had her call our office for a suggestion.” Our office. He said that easily now.

  “Any chain will do. Or I passed a place coming in. Something Manor.”

  “Closest chain’s in Lexington. And Dallas said to tell you you can’t stay at the Piedmont Manor.”

  Her shoulder moved, more a twitch than a shrug. “I’ll be fine.”

  “If you don’t believe Dallas, go back and ask the sheriff. You can’t stay there.”

  She was fast. His words indicated he’d seen her leave the sheriff’s office. That left a gap — the gap when she’d stood by the prosecution table, thinking fierce thoughts. She was wondering what he’d been doing during that time.

  She was also clear to read. It was one of her strengths as a prosecutor. Juries believed her, because they saw she believed in the defendant’s guilt.

  “Dallas has a guesthouse,” he said. “Private drive. Easy walk to the office and here. He said for you to try it tonight. You can leave your things and be to the high school for the meeting.”

  “Fine.” She wanted this trivial matter settled. “How do I get there?”

  “I’ll lead you.”

  “Just tell me.”

  Oh, yeah, she was easy to read. “There are quirks, and Dallas doesn’t let anyone have the key until they’ve been warned.”

  She cut a look toward him without connecting, grabbed her purse, and passed him.

  He matched her pace across the marble lobby floor. Held the heavy wooden door for her. He waited until they’d started down the outside steps to say, “It’s going to be hard working together if you can’t look me in the eye.”

  She stopped. Her cold glare belied his accusation. “We are not working together.”

  “You’re leaving?”

  The glare’s temperature shot up but everything else about her cooled, especially her voice, as she continued down the steps. “Why are you determined to be involved in this investigation?”

  “I’d think that was obvious.”

  “You’re going to say it’s to clear your name.”

  “And you’re thinking it’s so I can interfere with the investigation.”

  “A logical conclusion.”

  “A logical premise. For a conclusion you need—” He let an extra beat emphasize the final word. “—evidence.”

  “I had evidence. I never prosecute someone if I have any doubt about their guilt.”

  This woman threw her cards on a table like a B-52 delivering bombs. He wasn’t surprised, not after watching her in court.

  “A jury didn’t agree with you. And you’ve missed another explanation for why I want in on this — I don’t want any more dead women in my county.”

  Her phone rang. As they crossed the street to the red Honda with the Fairlington County sticker, she fished it out of her bag one-handed and answered with the ease of practice, never breaking stride.

  “Frye. … Yes, I heard.” She looked directly at him. He leaned against her car, holding up his end of the stare. “Yes, that, too. … He’s here. … That’s right, J.D. Carson. … He’s offered to lead me there now to check it out. … Yes. I’ll call you immediately. … I will be.”

  She disconnected the call, maintaining eye contact.

  He nodded, pushing off the car. “Smart, letting your office know who you’re with and where you’re going.”

  “I’m a smart person.”

  “No need to prove it to me.” He’d seen how smart she was first-hand. It could have put a needle in his arm. “I’ll lead the way.”

  He wasn’t entirely sure until he pulled his truck out of the alley beside the office and her red Honda followed.

  A left, right, left and into the dead-end dirt lane to the rear of the generous grounds around historic Monroe House. He parked the truck with the nose stopping shy of the weathered wood fence that marked the end of the lane.

  She pulled in beside him, in the spot closer to the guesthouse’s door. She had too much speed and had to hit the brakes hard. The Honda’s front end dove low, but the bumper still connected with the fence, not with enough force to do any damage to fence or bumper, but enough to set the old wood shuddering.

  She was already out of the car when he came around to her driver’s side. He blocked her path, pointed at the fence.

  “You pushed your luck. There’s a drop-off to the creek bed forty, fifty feet down. If you count on that fence holding you, you’re going to find yourself smashed up.”

  The red in her cheeks deepened in a way no makeup could reproduce. Whether she’d been distracted by the wild grounds threatening to swallow the little guesthouse or she’d been questioning herself for coming to such an isolated spot with him, she hadn’t been paying attention to her driving. And she was pissed. At him. At herself.

  “I’ll remember that.”

  He led her to the single broad step flanked by rhododendron bushes behind budding azaleas. Clouds had rolled in, working toward smothering the sun, and the thick rhododendrons added to the gloom.

  He showed her how the front door’s handle had to be lifted up and jiggled for the key to fit. Only when she’d done it successfully did they go inside.

  “You’ve got a nice view from the porch.” He gestured toward the screened porch that ran six feet deep along the back and was partially cantilevered over the drop-off to the creek.

  Bushes had blocked the view until he pruned them four years ago.

  She made a sound, like she approved of the flickering sunlight on the opposite bank shifting across soft greens of new leaves and stark blacks of rain-soaked trunks. What she said was, “Anything else?”

  “Heat.” He pointed to a handle with a hot pad tied to it. If she didn’t know to use the hot pad to turn it off there was no use telling her anything. “Never put the heat on when you have this lamp plugged in. It’s a fire hazard, combining those two.”

  He waited. She said nothing. He saw the It’s almost May, I’ll never need to know this look folks from other places got. If she didn’t figure out that the weather in these mountains didn’t operate by the calendar there was no use telling her that, either.

  He led the way to the kitchen. “This faucet has to be dripping to get the shower to run. If the refrigerator starts sounding like a motor boat, unplug it, let it sit five minutes — full five minutes — then plug it back in. Any garbage, take to the main house. The raccoons don’t take no for an answer. Don’t leave the door open or you’ll have them for roommates.”

  He kept up his monologue, as if he didn’t notice she always stayed closer to the door than to him.

  Narrow steps led to the bedroom and bath. She went to the seat under three wide windows that reached to the ceiling and looked over a steep porch roof, then across the gully to the woods. He never got between her and the exit.

  “There’s a closet.” He pointed to a door next to the bath, then to a door on the far side of the bed, next to the windows. “That’s storage. Kept locked.”

  She didn’t say a word.

  “Any questions?” he asked when they were on the front step again.

  “You could have gone back to the Army, why stay here? Why law?”

  He’d meant about the guesthouse. But he should have been ready — surprise and directness gave her cross-examination muscle.

  “I went into law fo
r the big bucks. Didn’t you?”

  He held up the key. When she put a palm out, he dropped it in. She made no move to go inside, to turn her back on him.

  Most people had no fear because they had no distrust of him. Some let good manners push them into pretending they had no fear. A few showed fear.

  None of the above for Maggie Frye.

  He got in his truck, made a proficient three-point turn and pulled away.

  Before the magnolia blocked his view, he checked the rear-view mirror. She was still standing there, watching his truck. Making sure he left.

  Commonwealth v. J.D. Carson

  Witness Terence Pratt, Colonel, U.S. Army (prosecution)

  Direct Examination by ACA Frye

  Q. Thank you for that summary of the defendant’s military career, Colonel Pratt. What it comes down to is that the defendant has been trained to kill, isn’t that so, Colonel?

  A. He is trained to fight. In some instances that might call for employing potentially lethal force.

  Q. Certainly being in combat, as the defendant has been, would call for — as you say — employing potentially lethal force, would it not?

  A. In some circumstances. Even in combat there are fewer instances for an individual to face the decision of whether to employ potentially lethal force than many civilians believe.

  Q. Do those instances exist in combat?

  A. As I said—

  Q. Please answer the question.

  Defense. Objection, Your Honor. The prosecution is badgering her own witness.

  THE COURT: Overruled. I will allow it, though, Ms. Frye, I don’t recommend pushing the bounds with your own witness. Colonel, if you will please answer the question.

  A. Yes, they exist.

  Q. Thank you, Colonel Pratt. Now, the training the defendant received that you listed for us, that would include knowing how to fire a weapon?

  A. Yes.

  Q. Including knowing how to fire a Smith & Wesson M&P 9-millimeter, the same model the victim, Mrs.—?

  Mr. Monroe: Objection. This witness has no way of knowing the model of Mrs. Wade’s weapon.

  THE COURT: Sustained.