Due Process (Joe Dillard #9)(23)

“Can I come up and swim in your pool soon?”

“Absolutely. You can come swim any time you like. But Labor Day for sure.”

I reached out and hugged her and kissed her on the cheek while she was still on the pony.

“You and Pepper have a good evening,” I said. “I’ll see you again soon. I love you, pretty girl.”

“Bye, Uncle Joe,” she said as she trotted away toward the barn. “Love you, too.”

I looked up at Sarah, who was standing in the doorway. I waved and she waved back. I saw the man, Greg Murray, again, lurking in the doorway to the barn. Something about the guy gave me the heebies.

I raised my hand to him, but he turned his back on me again and disappeared into the barn. I took note of the tag number on his truck and left. As soon as I pulled onto the road, I dialed Leon Bates’s cell number.

“Brother Joe Dillard,” Leon said in his Southern drawl. “How’s it going?”

“Good, Leon, how have you been?”

“Finer than frog hair, brother.”

“Good, good to hear. I hate to call you out of the blue and ask for a favor, but I need one.”

“Fire away,” Leon said.

I gave him the tag number on Greg Murray’s truck and told him his name.

“He’s hanging around my sister,” I said, “and you know as well as I do she doesn’t have a sterling record when it comes to men. Would you mind checking to see if this guy has a criminal record?”

“Not at all. Want me to do it right now?”

“Do you have time?”

“Sure. I’ll call you back in ten minutes.”

“Thank you, Leon.”

I disconnected the call. Ten minutes later, he called me back.

“He has a record,” Leon said.

“How bad is it?”

“He’s only been convicted of one crime. He robbed a bank over in Elizabethton eleven years ago. Didn’t use a gun or any other kind of weapon, just handed the teller a note. Walked out the door with a grand total of three thousand dollars. The Elizabethton police arrested him less than a mile away from the bank, so he obviously isn’t the brightest crayon in the box. Feds sentenced him to ten years, he served eight years and eight months, then did six more months in a halfway house in Knoxville. He got out of there in June, so he hasn’t been around long.”

“That’s great. A bank robber hanging around my niece and my sister. I wonder if he’s a druggie.”

“Maybe,” Leon said. “Or maybe he just needed a little cash in a hurry and his momma wouldn’t loan it to him. You should ask him.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that, Leon. I’ll ask him.”

“I’m sure you will. Try not to hurt him too bad when you do.”

“Thanks, Leon. You’re my man.”

“Careful, brother Dillard. People will say we’re in love.”





FRIDAY, AUGUST 30

I woke up the next morning to the news that every single ETSU football player was voluntarily giving a DNA sample to the police and that the president of the university, an extremely bright and decent man from everything I knew of him, was considering forfeiting the first two games of the football season. I didn’t think either was a good idea. Voluntarily giving the samples was voluntarily giving evidence to the police, evidence that, in the wrong hands, could be misinterpreted or, at worst, manipulated or falsified. Forfeiting the first two games sent the message that the administration believed the players were either guilty or otherwise at fault. The paper reported that the forfeits would be “punishment for having a party where the entertainment was provided by an exotic dancer,” but there were other ways of doling out punishment for the actions of stupid young men. Forfeiting games affected all of the players, all of the fans, the opposing teams and their fans, the marching bands, the cheerleaders, the people who sold shirts and concessions. It affected thousands of people outside of the players, and I just didn’t think it was a good idea. It also ensured that the news coverage, which was building steam every day, would ramp up another notch.

I’d tried to call the president of the university and the football coach the previous afternoon, but I hadn’t been able to get them on the phone and neither had returned the call. I guess I had some answers, though. They were throwing their guys under the bus as far as I was concerned. Having them voluntarily submit DNA samples to the police was a public relations move, not something done with the players’ best interests in mind. Forfeiting the games—if they did it—was more of the same. They were condemning the players’ actions in the public domain. I sat at the kitchen table and thought about the university’s dilemma for a few minutes. It was a nightmare. Because of the stupidity of a few young men, an entire institution that employed thousands of people and was one of the most important economic and cultural entities in the area, was going to be put through hell. There were already angry protests being held on campus, calls to disband the football team, an advertisement in the newspaper taken out by thirty members of the faculty that basically called the players rapists and blamed it on the university administration. As I’d mentioned in the meeting at the office, a lynch mob mentality had developed, just as I knew it would. Everyone wanted blood, somebody’s blood, and they wanted it now. To hell with the truth; they’d sort that out later.