High in Trial

Copyright 2013 by Donna Ball Inc.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without the
express written permission of the author

http://www.donnaball.net

Published by Blue Merle Publishing

Drawer H

Mountain City GA 30562

www.bluemerlepublishing.com

Experts in the North Carolina criminal justice system and in the rules and regulations
of AKC agility will please forgive certain liberties taken by the author for the sake
of this story. No claims made herein should in any way be construed to be an accurate
representation of either organization.

Many thanks to Brinkley, Gunny, and Bryte for the use of their names and breeds, although
all other details relating to them are entirely the product of the author’s imagination.
The owners/handlers depicted in this novel are wholly fictitious and bear no known
resemblance whatsoever to their real-life counterparts.

This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, organizations, and places in this
book are either a product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously and no
effort should be made to construe them as real. Any resemblance to any actual people,
events, or locations is purely coincidental
.

ONE

December 1992

T
he rust-colored pickup truck came out of nowhere, careening into the intersection
like a skier taking off on a slalom course. There was no way she could have avoided
it, even if the road had not been icy, even if the night had not been pitch black,
even if she had not had a glass of wine—or maybe two—at dinner. She didn’t have time
to cry out, and before her foot could even hit the brake, her Taurus had gone into
a spin. Headlights flashed in her eyes, the steering wheel wrenched itself from her
hand, and her companion shouted, “Steer into the skid! Steer into it!”

She grabbed the wheel, twisted it hard to the right, fought the foot that wanted to
slam into the brake pedal. She remembered—she would never forget—the instant her headlights
caught the face of the driver of the other vehicle and seemed to freeze it in time:
small, terrified eyes, white skin, scruffy beard, and stringy brown hair. His mouth
formed an obscenity, revealing one tooth missing in front, before the night snatched
him away and she heard the piercing shriek of metal on metal, smelled the burn of
rubber, and the car shuddered to a stop. The pickup truck careened off her front bumper,
spun around, and screeched to a stop facing north in the southbound lane ten feet
away.

For the longest time, she could hear nothing but the sound of her own thundering heartbeat,
the hic and gasp of her breath, and, oddly, the hiss of the car’s heater, still blowing
hot air across the interior. Then she became aware of the man in the seat beside her,
dragging off her seat belt, touching her arms and her face, saying, “Sweetheart, are
you all right? Talk to me. Are you hurt?”

“Fine, I’m fine. The other fellow… Do you have your phone? Call 9-1-1.”

She fumbled for the door handle, but he stopped her with a hand firmly on her wrist.
“Wait,” he said. He had an authority about him that could command armies: quiet, calm,
calculated, and always in control. It was this she had first loved about him. He didn’t
panic. He didn’t rush to judgment. And he didn’t make mistakes. “You’ve been drinking.
I’ll go check on him. Change seats with me.”

She stared at him. Her voice, normally so gentle, her tone so dulcet, deteriorated
into a near hiss of horror. “Me? You’ve had more to drink
than
I have! What if he recognizes you? You’re supposed to be in Seattle! Think this through,
for God’s sake—”

“I have.” His hand was already on the passenger doorknob, and with the other hand
he thrust his phone at her. “Call it in. He could be hurt.”

He had one foot out the door when the blare of a horn tore through the night. The
engine of the pickup truck revved and its driver rolled down his window. “Bitch!”
he screamed out the window. “Crazy-ass bitch! Keep it on the damn road, will you?
Crazy bitch!”

And then, incredibly, the transmission shrieked into reverse, he turned the truck
around, and the tires squealed as he sped away.

That turned out to be the biggest mistake of that young man’s life. And, for the two
people watching incredulously as he peeled off, perhaps the luckiest break of theirs.
For a time, anyway.

Two hours later, a bored and sleepy patrolman outside a small North Georgia town pulled
over a rust-colored pickup truck for speeding and failure to maintain a lane, ran
the plates and discovered two DUIs and an outstanding bench warrant. This, and the
suspect’s erratic behavior, gave him cause to search the vehicle, where he discovered
a small cellophane bag containing a trace amount of a white powdery substance that
might have been cocaine, a thirty-eight special concealed in the glove box, along
with a wad of cash that amounted to two thousand fourteen dollars and a crumpled receipt
for gas from a mini-mart outside Hansonville, North Carolina. The officer also noted
minor damage to the front right fender of the vehicle that appeared to be recent.
The suspect, one Jeremiah Allen Berman, was cuffed and booked on DUI, possession of
a concealed weapon, and suspicion of trafficking controlled substances.

At eight o’clock that morning those charges were dropped in favor of far more interesting
ones. Apparently a man matching Berman’s description, driving a brown or red pickup
truck, had stopped for gas at the Cash-N-Carry outside Hansonville, North Carolina,
robbed the cash register of over two
thousand dollars, and shot the clerk with a thirty-eight caliber weapon before departing,
scraping his right front fender on the concrete pylon beside the pump as he fled.
Jeremiah Allen Berman was extradited to North Carolina on armed robbery charges, protesting
his innocence and demanding his rights every mile along the way.

He was arraigned
within forty-eight hours
and a trial date was set. The prosecutor offered three years and his court-appointed
attorney told him to take it. At first he was cocky. Why were they cutting him a deal
if they were so sure he was guilty? Because they couldn’t prove it, that was why.
Because they didn’t have a security camera tape or a bullet or anything but a couple
of half-assed witnesses to put him at the scene. Plus, he was innocent. He was totally
going to skate if it went to a jury. Meanwhile, the Hanover County jail was clean
and the food wasn’t half bad. He’d take his chances.

By the time he started to reconsider his decision a few days later, it was too late.
The store clerk was dead, and Jeremiah Allen Berman was facing the death penalty for
a murder he did
n
o
t commit.

~*~

FRIDAY

The Present

~*~

TWO

Twenty-nine hours before the shooting

I
’
ve always thought I’d like to write a book entitled
Everything My Dog Needs to Know My Mother Taught Me
. My mother wasn’t a dog trainer. But she was a great mother. Aside from how to tie
my shoelaces and the importance of regular dental checkups, she imparted quite a few
important life lessons, such as:

—Honesty is the best policy. It’s easier than lying and usually has fewer consequences.

—Always do your best. Less is cheating.

—Winning is better than losing. Always.

Okay, so the meaning of that last one is probably more like
trying
to win is its own reward, or perhaps even it’s not whether you win or lose, but how
you play the game. I have to admit, I’ve always been a little on the competitive side.
A teacher once described me, somewhat generously, as goal-oriented. My goal is winning.

My name is Raine Stockton. My father was a judge and my mother was the arbiter of
all things gentle and proper in the small Smoky Mountain town of Hansonville, North
Carolina, where I still live. I’m afraid I’ve fallen a little short of her standards
when it comes to gentility and propriety, but I do try my best to impart to my dogs
the same important life lessons she taught me. Honesty, for example, is as desirable
a quality in a dog as it is in a human, and you hear a lot of talk about “honest”
dogs on the competitive circuit. Frankly, I’ve never met a dishonest dog, but when
trainers and handlers call a dog honest, what they usually mean is he’s consistent,
dependable, and earnest. What you see is what you get.

My golden retriever Cisco is extremely consistent: consistently distractible, consistently
curious, consistently unpredictable. For example, with only one group ahead of us
for our very first run of the agility season—the one that would set the tone for the
rest of the year—he was completely and obsessively focused, not on me, his partner,
his handler, and the only member of our two-member team who could actually read the
course map the judge designed, but on Brinkley, a sassy golden retriever who’d recently
become his new BFF.

Brinkley, good dog that he was, was warming up by weaving through his handler’s legs
and practicing focus by dropping to a sit on command and maintaining eye contact.
Cisco watched him in eager fascination, ears forward and grinning, as I sank down
onto the bleachers, tugging him into place beside me. The Excellent class was finishing
up; Open—in which we were entered—was next. Cisco had completed walk time, play time,
warm-up time at the practice jump, and a pep talk. I was wearing my lucky Golden Retriever
Club of America sweatshirt, my lucky agility socks, and the Air Bud cap my young friend
Melanie brought back from her spring break trip to Disney World in Orlando. My shoelaces
were double knotted. My long brown ponytail was threaded through the back of my hat,
securely out of my way. I was ready. Cisco was ready. There was nothing more we could
do until the judge called our class.

We’d traveled from Hansonville to Pembroke, South Carolina, for the three-day AKC
sanctioned agility trial, which was the traditional opening of the competitive season
in our part of the country. It was a gorgeous April weekend, and the venue was perfect:
huge open agricultural fairgrounds and exhibition center with two covered pavilions,
a concrete livestock building for crating, plenty of public restrooms, a separate
concessions building surrounded by picnic tables, and acres of rolling grass for setting
up shade canopies and walking dogs. There was even RV parking on site, and every time
I walked past the camping area with the smell of charcoal-grilled burgers and the
sight of happy dogs lounging in their ex-pens in front, I felt a stab of yearning.
Although I had no complaints about my luxurious room at the Pembroke Host Inn on this
trip, most doggie motels left a great deal to be desired. An RV was any dog show enthusiast’s
secret dream.

If I had had an RV, for example, I would have brought my two Aussies, Mischief and
Magic, and I would have entered every class being offered this weekend. I might even
have a chance of winning one. On the other hand, Cisco and I had trained all winter—well,
part of it, anyway—and I was feeling good about our chances. I only hoped Cisco shared
my confidence.

Of course, there were a few advantages to staying in a motel rather than an RV, even
if it did mean limiting myself to one dog. Like room service, for example, and a full
stand-up shower. And the fact that my boyfriend, Miles, had surprised me by driving
in from Atlanta last night and had immediately upgraded our room to a mini-suite.
I have to admit, the evening wouldn’t have been nearly as enjoyable had we been staying
in an RV with three dogs.