Due Process (Joe Dillard #9)(55)

She winked and smiled at me. “I’ll take that as a compliment, sugar.”

“So you’re blackmailing Armstrong?”

“That sounds a bit harsh, sweetie, but yes, I suppose I am. I’m also paying him. If this goes as planned—which means if you don’t ruin it—I’m going to pay him two hundred thousand dollars.”

“What kind of dirt do you have on him?”

“Something he doesn’t want anyone to know. It’s like I said, everyone has secrets. I’ll bet even you have a few, although I confess I don’t know what they are and wouldn’t for the life of me ever use them against you even if I did.”

“What doesn’t he want anyone to know, Erlene?”

“Do you know what the seven deadly sins are, baby doll?”

I thought for a moment. Seven deadly sins. Originated with the Catholics, I thought.

“I’m not sure,” I said. “Pride, maybe? Envy? Gluttony? I don’t remember all of them off-hand.”

“You got three right. They’re pride, greed, lust, envy, gluttony, wrath and sloth. Everybody’s guilty at one time or another. That’s why we shouldn’t be so quick to judge each other, but we are. People are quick to judge, and the juicier the sin, the harsher the judgment.”

“Armstrong,” I said.

‘Lust. He’s having an affair. With a man. He’s very sneaky about it, but my investigator caught him with his pants down, so to speak. I have photos, videos, recordings, everything I need to destroy him if he doesn’t do what I want.”

“And remind me what it is exactly that you want?”

“For him to keep this prosecution going long enough for me to get a big check out of the university. I want to take a bite out of them so big they’ll feel it for a long time to come, and I’m right on the verge of getting it done. Please don’t ruin it for me. I’ve waited and planned for so long. Just give me a couple more weeks.”

“I’m going to have to think this over,” I said as I stood to leave.

“We’ve been friends for a long time, sugar,” Erlene said. “Please don’t let me down.”

I went out to my bullet-riddled truck and left. I felt a pang of guilt as I drove away.

I had a small camera in my tie clasp along with a microphone.

I’d taped every bit of the conversation.





PART THREE





MONDAY, OCTOBER 14

Charlie, Jack and I had gathered the forensic toxicology report from Dr. Kershaw that showed how much GHB was in Sheila Self’s system the night they drew blood from her at the hospital, the results from the DNA testing done by the TBI lab in Knoxville, the audio/video recording of Investigator Riddle and Sheila Self doing the bogus lineup, the audio recording of the phone conversation between Erlene and Armstrong, the video/audio I had of Erlene, and had spent the weekend drafting a motion to dismiss the indictments against the players for violations of the defendants’ fourteenth amendment right to due process under the law. The motion also alleged bad faith on the part of the prosecution. I shared it with Patrick Lonon, the public defender who was representing Devante Wright, and with Jim Beaumont, who was representing Evan Belle, and asked whether they wanted to sign on. Both of them did.

My biggest problem was that there was no way I’d get the conversation between Mike Armstrong and Erlene Barlowe into court. It was illegal in Tennessee to record a telephone conversation without the consent of at least one party. I could record someone calling me because I consented to the recording, but I couldn’t intercept and record a conversation between two individuals without the consent of at least one of them or without a court order or a warrant. I had neither of those things.

The question of what I would do with the knowledge of Mike Armstrong’s affair was delicate. I didn’t want to out him in public. It was beneath me, but he had to know that I knew why he was continuing this farce of a case. I figured we’d handle that matter in the judge’s chambers if I could get the judge to agree.

What I was most looking forward to was getting Bo Riddle on the witness stand. I knew once I filed the motion it would become a part of the public record and the media would jump all over it. The motion hearing would be packed and probably be covered by at least some national media outlets. It would be a big stage, but I’d been on some pretty big stages before with a lot at stake. I was ready. Charlie had run the motion over to the courthouse early on Monday (Washington County hadn’t yet moved into the digital age which would have allowed us to file everything electronically) and I’d called the judge. The motion hearing was set for Thursday.

On Monday morning about ten-thirty, I was sitting at my desk going back over everything when Beverly Snyder’s voice came over the intercom on my desk.

“There’s a man here who is asking to see you, Mr. Dillard,” she said. “Actually, he’s demanding to see you. He doesn’t have an appointment.”

“Does he have a name?”

“He won’t give me his name. I think you should come out here.”

I recognized a strain in Beverly’s voice. She was frightened.

“Be right out,” I said.

Our renovation of the office had included some security measures. One of those measures was that Jack, Charlie and I all had weapons in our offices. I had a Sig Sauer nine-millimeter pistol taped under my desk that I could get to very easily. It was pointed at the chair that sat in front of my desk and if I had to, I could fire it through the desk without the person who was sitting there ever knowing what was coming. I didn’t look at it as radical. I looked at it as practical. A few years earlier, a deranged man who had become obsessed with Charlie had come into the office and tried to kill her. He shot Jack in the process. Besides that, we dealt with some pretty dangerous folks, and lawyers had been killed in their offices by victims of crimes, by family members of victims of crimes, and by their own clients. I didn’t intend to become just another dead lawyer, murdered by some nut in my office. Jack also had a nine-millimeter pistol in his office and Charlie had a sawed-off shotgun loaded with twelve-gauge slugs that would take someone’s head off. She knew how to use, it, too. Everyone had panic buttons on the floor beneath our desks that we could push with our feet. If I pushed the button in my office, a red light began flashing in everyone else’s office. Panic button meant gun or knife or some other deadly weapon had been displayed. Our strategy was to shoot first if we had to. Our goal was to survive. We’d let the cops sort things out later.