The Summer House(23)

Slate’s address is listed as 62 Sullivan Highway, also known as Route 119. Not in the county buildings after all.

He pulls out of the parking lot.

Fool, he thinks. Overreacting.

And lost to boot.



Fifteen minutes later, Allen’s in a renovated, light-yellow Victorian house where Cornelius Slate shares space with a dentist’s office. The heavyset, cheerful man putters around his crowded office, offering him coffee from a Keurig machine, talking about the weather, and inquiring about Allen’s travels. On a hardwood floor covered with dusty Oriental rugs sit bookshelves and filing cabinets, and framed black-and-white photos of what looks to be downtown Sullivan hang on the wall.

Slate is in his sixties, paunchy, wearing dark-green trousers with suspenders and a striped shirt, sleeves rolled up his beefy forearms. His head is fleshy, white hair combed back in a pompadour, and his black-rimmed reading glasses are perched halfway down his nose.

“Sorry I’m late,” Allen says for the third time since arriving.

“Ah, don’t worry about it,” Slate replies, making a dismissive wave of his hand. “Not all district attorneys in Georgia are high-paid employees of the county, hanging out in fancy courthouses. You get out of one of those urban counties like Chatham, where Savannah is, it gets rural real quick. There’s not enough crime around here to maintain a full-time district attorney, so I have my own practice and step up to the plate when need be. Which is an honor but can also cut down on some of my billable hours, not able to defend a client ’cause of the conflict of interest.”

“Have you been district attorney that long?” he asks.

“Ten years, and two more, God willing, if the good folks here in Sullivan County decide to return me to office.”

Allen holds the warm cup in his hands. “I’ve seen the campaign signs. For you, the sheriff, the congressman, others.”

“It’s that time of year,” he says. “Tell me, young fella, you seem a smart sort. Where did you go to school? How did you end up in the Army?”

“I went to Columbia,” Allen says. “One of my professors…he had been a first responder on 9/11 before going to law school. He died young of cancer, probably from working at the Towers after they came down.”

Slate nods. “Revenge, then.”

Allen corrects him. “Justice. And have you always practiced law here?”

The district attorney grins. “Sure looks like it, the messy office I got, the town where I live. Nope, I went to George Mason and then worked corporate law for Georgia-Pacific for lots of years. Ended up with a fat paycheck and sleepless nights. Quit Georgia-Pacific. Now I have a small paycheck and I sleep like the proverbial baby.”

Then he shakes his head and says, “Well, what a mess, eh? All those murders, those four Rangers arrested. And at The Summer House at that. What a goddamn shame, to see a lovely place like that get run-down and dirty, and then have all those folks get shot inside. A real damn shame.”

Slate leans back in his old-style office chair, which loudly creaks. “I can see why the Army sent a fella like you down here, but what’s your job? To defend them?”

“No,” Allen says, sipping the coffee, which is one of those vanilla blended-spice types he despises. “I’m part of an investigative unit assigned to high-profile crimes like this. We’re looking to gather information, ensure that all the facts are known.”

“I see,” Slate says, his hands folded over his belly. “You also had a Chinaman with you this morning, over at the Ralston jail. Where is he now?”

Allen has never served overseas in either Iraq or Afghanistan, but he’s sure the hair rising on the back of his neck is coming from knowing he and the others are under constant surveillance.

“He’s on other duties,” Allen says, still hating the coffee, wanting to correct this small-town, small-minded lawyer about using an ethnic slur to describe a fellow officer, but right now he needs information.

“Well, what can I do for you? What do you need to know?”

“I don’t know much about Georgia criminal law, so I’m looking for a quick guide,” Allen says. “I know it’s early, but do you anticipate indicting the four of them for first-degree murder or second-degree murder?”

Slate has a cheery smile on his face. “Neither.”

“Excuse me?” Allen asks, feeling warm, like the older man is enjoying putting him in his place.

“I guess you do need some guidance after all,” Slate says. “In Georgia, we don’t have first-degree or second-degree murder. We have malice murder, felony murder, and voluntary manslaughter, among others. Of course, it all depends on the grand jury meeting after the official arraignment for your Rangers.”

“When do you expect the arraignment?”

“Thursday or Friday of next week. Grand jury will take a bit longer.”

“On my flight down I read that most Georgia counties have grand juries that meet every Wednesday. True?”

Slate shakes his head. “Haven’t you figured out yet, we’re not a usual county? In Sullivan County we meet every six months for a grand jury.”

Allen is stunned. A half year wait for an indictment?

“For real?” he asks.

“Do I look like I’m joking, son?” Slate asks. “Nope. Six months is typical, though I imagine with a case like this one, we’ll be able to rearrange things, move it up some. In the meantime, those four fellas will have an opportunity to have a bond hearing, to see if they can be released prior to the indictment. Which I doubt. But any way you look at it, these fellas won’t be going to trial for a year to eighteen months. We’re a busy state down here.”