Due Process (Joe Dillard #9)(64)
Riddle’s cheeks were the color of a firetruck. He looked to be on the verge of having a stroke.
“I’d be happy to play it again. It’s been authenticated. Perhaps, after you’ve watched it, you might want to change your recollection of how you conducted the lineup. Investigator Riddle?”
“That won’t be necessary, Mr. Dillard,” Judge Neese said. “I don’t believe Mr. Armstrong will proceed with a perjury charge against Investigator Riddle, but I can charge him with contempt summarily. Investigator Riddle, I find you in criminal contempt of this court in the presence of the court for willfully committing perjury and for willfully interfering in the process of justice. The maximum amount of time I can put you in jail is ten days and the maximum amount I can fine you is fifty dollars. I wish I could do more, but the law says I can’t. Both of those punishments are ordered. Bailiff, take Investigator Riddle into custody and have him taken to jail. Investigator Riddle, don’t ever bother coming into my courtroom again because I won’t believe a word you say. I also plan to call Chief Starring and tell him what you’ve done. I’m going to recommend that he terminate your employment because you’ve been untruthful and I believe you to be a racist. Take him away.”
As the bailiff was cuffing Riddle, he looked over at me and said, “I’ll be out in ten days, Dillard, and I’ll be looking for you.”
“That’s another count of criminal contempt for threatening defense counsel,” the judge said. “You’ll be out in twenty days. Open your mouth again and we’ll make it thirty.”
“I know what you did at my house,” I said. “I’ll be waiting.”
The bailiff led Riddle away. He didn’t say anything else, but he didn’t have to. The way he was looking at me said it all.
Once he was out of the courtroom, the judge said, “I think we need a little break. Let’s recess for fifteen minutes.”
“Your honor,” I said. “There is a matter I’d like to take up with you in chambers.”
“Ten minutes,” she said. “You and Mr. Armstrong only.”
THURSDAY, OCTOBER 17
Ten minutes later, Armstrong and I were sitting in front of Judge Neese in her chambers.
“What’s on your mind, Mr. Dillard?” she said.
“I’m hoping to end this right now, without having to go back out there and present any more evidence,” I said. “I have several more witnesses, one of whom is Dr. Kershaw. I’m sure you know him.”
“I do,” the judge said. “He usually testifies for the prosecution.”
“We sent a sample of Ms. Self’s blood to a laboratory that Dr. Kershaw uses regularly. They conducted a Drug Facilitated Sexual Assault analysis of the blood. It’s a test the TBI lab isn’t set up to do, but the bottom line is that Dr. Kershaw is going to testify that Ms. Self had alcohol, ecstasy and a large amount of GHB in her blood the night she claims she was raped. His expert opinion is that she would have been suffering from anterograde amnesia. She wouldn’t have remembered a thing. When you combine that with what Officer James wrote in her report, the videotape that was taken by Laurie Ingram, and the fact that the TBI’s DNA analysis showed there was no DNA from any ETSU football player on or in Ms. Self, it becomes pretty clear that no rape occurred. Oh, and by the way, Mr. Armstrong ran the same test on the blood and failed to provide a copy of the results to me during discovery.”
“All of this is a matter for the jury,” Armstrong said.
“You might want to be quiet for a minute,” I said to Armstrong. I looked back at the judge. “I kept asking myself why Mr. Armstrong was prosecuting this case. He was being totally unreasonable. I didn’t think he was a racist, although I’d suspected Riddle was for some time. But now I know why Mr. Armstrong continued with this, and we can either go back into open court and I can embarrass and humiliate him, or we can work this out in chambers, he can ask you to dismiss the case, and everyone can start moving on from this disaster.”
Armstrong turned to me and said, “You’re so damned smug. You say you know why I’m continuing with this case? You don’t know anything. I’m continuing with this case because a young woman made an accusation of rape and it is my job to prosecute crimes in this district.”
“You’re being blackmailed by a woman named Erlene Barlowe,” I said.
Armstrong’s neck twitched as though he’d had some kind of involuntary muscle spasm.
“I don’t know anyone named Erlene Barlowe,” he said.
“Yes, you do, and I can prove it. I can also prove how she’s blackmailing you. Do you want me to play the tape I have of her telling me about your affair? I subpoenaed her, too. Surely you had to wonder why I’d do that. I’ll put her on the witness stand and play the tape I have of her describing how she’s blackmailing you. It’s as good or better than the Riddle tape.”
“Talk to me, Mr. Dillard,” Judge Neese said, pointing at herself. “What’s this about an affair and why would it matter?”
“Don’t take this wrong,” I said. “Personally, I couldn’t care less about Mr. Armstrong’s sexual orientation, but he’s having an affair with an electrician named Michael Adams. It’s a long story, judge, but Ms. Barlowe set this entire thing up. She owns the escort service that sent Ms. Self to the party. Her plan was to make a false allegation of rape against a player and then get a big check out of the university. She had no idea Ms. Self and Riddle would turn it into a gang rape and a racial matter, but because they did, Ms. Barlowe stood to get even more money out of the university. Mr. Armstrong has continued to prosecute—even though he had no evidence and knew the allegations were totally false—because Ms. Barlowe threatened to expose his affair with Mr. Adams to the public. And she’d do it, too. She also promised him a little cut of the money. How much was it, Mr. Armstrong? Two hundred grand?”