Due Process (Joe Dillard #9)(37)

“Something’s dead in here,” I said after I introduced Jack and Charlie and we all sat down.

“Really? What do you mean?”

“Do you have a problem with your sense of smell?” I said.

“I have a condition called congenital anosmia. I was born without a sense of smell. That’s why I look like I’m starving to death. I can’t smell, so food doesn’t have the same taste for me that it does for others. I just don’t enjoy it.”

“I think you didn’t enjoy some chicken or fish or cat food and you tossed it in that can,” I said. “Can I get it out of here?”

“Sure, go ahead if it bothers you,” Armstrong said.

I picked the can up and took it out to his secretary.

“This stinks to high heaven,” I said.

“I’m his secretary, not his maid,” she said.

“Would you mind, please? We’re trying to have a meeting.”

She gave me the stink eye, one that matched the odor emanating from the trash can, and jerked the can out of my hand. She plugged her nose and strutted away.

I walked back in and sat down. Armstrong had a mole on his forehead that was extremely distracting, he was butt ugly, a totally unattractive political candidate, and yet somehow, he’d managed to get the county commission to appoint him to finish out Tanner Jarrett’s term when Tanner resigned and moved to Washington. I didn’t get it, but when it came to the behind-closed-doors workings of the Washington County Commission, a lot of things didn’t make sense.

“I don’t have much time,” Armstrong said.

“I’m sure you’re busy,” I said. “This won’t take long.”

I asked Jack to take out his phone and play the video of Sheila Self’s arrival at the party, her performance, and her premature exit.

“You’re about to play me a video?” Armstrong said.

“It was taken by a witness who was at the party.”

“You won’t get it in if we go to trial,” he said.

“Why? The witness is willing to testify to what she saw and that she took the video herself. She’ll authenticate it. It’s admissible and it blows your entire case out of the water.”

“I don’t want to see it,” Armstrong said.

“Why not?” I said. “Don’t you want to know what really happened?”

“I know what happened. I have a statement from my victim. We’ll soon have DNA evidence to back up her story.”

True to form, that made me angry, and when I became angry, I wasn’t particularly given to diplomacy. I leaned forward and pointed at him.

“You’ve screwed up is what you’ve done. You’ve been running around talking to every reporter in the country, you’ve been on television, on the radio, in papers and magazines, and you’ve backed yourself into a corner. You don’t give a damn about the truth at this point. This is about saving face, getting these boys convicted, and getting yourself elected so you can feed at the taxpayer’s trough for another eight years.”

“Get out,” Armstrong said. “All three of you, get out of my office. Now.”

I stood and looked at Jack and Charlie. They both seemed calm, but I could tell they were also confused and angry.

“If you don’t stop this charade, you’re going to wind up facing the ethics board,” I said. “I won’t call them, but somebody will. What I’m going to do is blow your case up and I’m going to make sure everybody knows what you and your skinhead investigator are doing.”

He covered his ears with his hands. I couldn’t believe it. He actually put his hands over his ears like a five-year-old.

“Are you kidding me?” I said. “What’s wrong with you?”

Next, he started singing, “Get out, get out, get out, get out, get out,” to the tune of “Heigh Ho” from “Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs.” It was one of the most bizarre displays of behavior I’d ever seen from a district attorney. Hell, it was one of the most bizarre displays of behavior I’d ever seen from anyone.

“Let’s go,” I said to Jack and Charlie. “This guy has obviously lost his mind.”





FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 27

The storm had died down a bit while everyone waited for the results of the DNA testing to come back from the TBI lab in Knoxville. Armstrong had stopped giving interviews, the two games had been forfeited, and the three players who lived in the house where the party was thrown—including Kevin Davidson—had been dismissed from the football team. Kevin was devastated by the dismissal. He and his parents had come to me asking if there was anything they could do about it, but sadly, there wasn’t. He controlled the house where a party was thrown and a stripper had been paid. It was grounds for dismissal from the team. They probably could have tossed him out of school, too, but they didn’t.

It was early on a Friday morning and I’d just arrived at the office. I was just sitting down at my desk when our secretary, Beverly Snyder’s, voice came over the intercom.

“You have a call from a TBI agent named Anita White on line one,” Beverly said.

“Thanks,” I said, and I punched the button on the phone.

“Special Agent White,” I said. “Always nice to hear from you.”