Due Process (Joe Dillard #9)(47)

My biggest problem was that there was no real legal mechanism for walking into Criminal Court and asking a judge to dismiss an indictment based on a lack of evidence. Defense lawyers could challenge indictments on mistakes in the form of the indictment or mistakes in the charges, but even if we managed to get the case tossed on technical defects in the indictment—and there weren’t any in Kevin’s case—Mike Armstrong would just go back to the grand jury, present his case again, get proper indictments against the players, and we’d start back at square one. What I needed to do was to attack what little evidence they had piece by piece, try to get it all excluded by filing motions in limine, get the judge on our side, and then gut Armstrong at trial. A motion in limine is a motion filed before the trial, asking the court for an order limiting or preventing the use of certain evidence during the trial.

I decided to get everyone together first thing in the morning and organize the attack. I also decided to do something I normally wouldn’t have done, which was to tell the lawyers representing the other two players what I was planning to do. They were both excellent lawyers, and I thought they might be able to offer some help.

“I’m going to hit the hay,” I said to Kevin. “I usually get up early and go for a run along a trail that runs through the woods at the top of the bluff above the lake. You’re welcome to join me, or you can sleep in.”

“What time do you get up?”

“Usually around five,” I said. “I hit the trail around six.”

“I’ll get up and go with you,” he said. “Might as well get up and move around. I’ll get depressed if I just sit around and worry.”

“Good. I’ll see you in the morning.”

I went back into the bedroom, kissed Caroline on the forehead, and went to sleep.



They came around three-thirty in the morning, the miserable cowards. It started when I was awakened by a low, steady growl coming from Rio. He was standing beneath the bedroom window, and I rolled out of bed and tried to calm him. What he was doing was extremely unusual. Rio knew the difference between a deer walking through the yard and a threat. Something, or someone, was outside that wasn’t supposed to be there. I opened the blinds and looked out the window but couldn’t see anything. It was pitch black outside, which was another sign that something was wrong. We had a security light at the corner of the house by the driveway. It had either quit working or someone had disabled it.

I moved quickly to the closet and threw on a dark hoodie, a pair of sweats and my running shoes. Then I grabbed a Remington Model 1100 Tactical shotgun and started sliding twelve-gauge, double-ought buckshot rounds into the magazine. It held eight.

I stepped back into the bedroom and Caroline was sitting up.

“What’s going on?” she said.

“I don’t know, but something isn’t right. The hair on Rio’s back is standing straight up.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Go out there and see what’s going on.”

“Why don’t you call the police?”

“Go ahead,” I said, and she reached over for her phone.

“Stay in here. Keep Rio with you. If I’m not back in five minutes, pick up a weapon and don’t be afraid to use it.”

Caroline had occasionally enjoyed going along with Jack and I on our shooting jaunts and could handle a variety of weapons. She wasn’t a dead-eye, but if a person got close enough, she could put a bullet in them. And I had no doubt she’d do it, too, to protect her home, herself, her dogs, and Kevin Davidson.

I slipped out of the bedroom and closed the door. I decided to go out the back, down the steps off the deck and circle around the house. I moved quickly, the shotgun at my shoulder. Just as I came around the corner of the house, I heard the rat tat tat of an assault rifle coming from the road at the top of the driveway. It had the distinctive sound of the Kalashnikov AK-47. The windows in the garage began to break. I huddled against the side of the house. There was no way I could go up against an assault rifle with a shotgun from that distance, and I had no idea how many people with weapons were out there. The firing continued as the shooter began to shred Kevin’s car, which was parked just to the side of the driveway on an asphalt pull-off. Finally, the shooting stopped, and the next thing I heard was a loud whoosh as flames lit up the night sky. Next came the sound of a diesel engine, most likely a large pick-up, and a male voice that yelled: “Nigger lover!”

I began to run toward the sound of the truck, firing the shotgun as I went. I squeezed off five rounds as the truck roared off into the darkness. I stopped running and moved the rest of the way up the driveway toward the fire. It was just a few feet off the road, and it only took a few seconds for me to realize what they’d done. I stood there staring, with a feeling of surreal bewilderment coming over me.

I’d read about it in books. I’d seen it in the movies.

But never, not once in my life, had I envisioned someone burning a cross in my front yard.





THURSDAY, OCTOBER 10

After I made sure they were gone by doing a sweep around the house and letting Rio out to do his own grid search, I dragged a water hose up and doused the flames. The cross was only about four feet high, made from a four-by-four post and a two-by-four crosspiece that had been nailed together. It was a hasty and sloppy job as far as intimidation tactics go, but I guess it served its purpose. I was certainly on notice that the racists knew where I lived and were willing to show up at my house. I didn’t know whether they were aware that Kevin Davidson was sleeping in Jack’s room. They hadn’t tried to get to him, but the thought nagged at me that someone knew, and I wondered who that person was and how he found out. It had to be a man. Women didn’t typically do cross-burnings.