Out Of Time (5 page)

I sighed. “Nothing else you can tell me?” I asked.

She shook her head. “I can’t tell you what I don’t remember.”

I slid one of my cards across the table. “Will you call me if you think of anything?” I asked. “That’s my office number and that’s home.”

She shrugged again. I was starting to seriously dislike that shrug. “You live in Durham,” she said. “I might have to call collect.”

“So call collect.” I stood to go and shook her hand goodbye. It was soft and puffy behind the old calluses, a work-worn hand without any work left to do. “Good luck,” I told her. “Whatever happens.”

“Whatever,” she repeated and treated me to a final shrug.

“Told you,” the tiny guard said as she led me out through the labyrinth of walkways and buildings. “Only one person can get through to her and that’s a girl who just might have worse luck than Gail. She’s over there.” She nodded toward a skinny woman hunched over on a bench, smoking a cigarette.

The woman felt us watching and glanced away like she’d been caught doing something bad. She had a sharp face, like someone who has been hungry for a long time, and she sure as hell didn’t need to be pulling tobacco smoke into her lungs. She was coughing up a storm as we passed by.

“Her girlfriend?” I asked.

The guard shrugged. “Hey, I’m like the military,” she said. “I don’t ask and I don’t tell.”

As we turned a corner near the front gate, I palmed a business card in my left hand and slipped my knapsack behind a bush. I don’t normally leave my personal possessions lying around in a compound of convicted thieves, but I had a plan in mind.

“Thanks,” I told the guard, shaking her hand.

“Good luck,” she replied and walked away briskly.

“Any luck?” the front-gate guard asked. He was reading an out-of-date issue of Sports Illustrated and looking monumentally bored.

I shook my head. “Not much.” I paused to give my escort time to disappear. “Oh, damn,” I complained. “I left my knapsack in the visiting room.”

“I’ll call,” he said, picking up the phone.

“Don’t bother.” I put my hand on his to stop him. “I know the way. It’ll only take me two minutes.”

“Suit yourself.” He turned back to his magazine as I quickly walked up the sidewalk toward the skinny girl sitting on the bench smoking a cigarette. She jumped when I dropped my business card in her lap and I caught a glimpse of a furtive, frightened fac

Before she could reply, I was heading back to the front gate. The last thing I needed was to have my visiting privileges cut off. I grabbed my knapsack from behind the bush, waved a cheery good-bye to the guard and fled to the familiar safety of my car. It felt good to leave the brick walls behind. 

What an uplifting Sunday it had been so far, I thought as I sped my way back home to Durham, hoping to beat the rain and the extra gloominess it would bring. I couldn’t make up my mind about the case, but I couldn’t think about it anymore today. Those brick prison walls were sticking with me and I needed to find a way to escape.

I returned to my apartment to find two phone messages. The first was from Bill Butler and it was to the point: “If you’re expecting me to call and apologize, don’t. I’m not going to.” All this was uttered quite cheerfully before he hung up with a click. Jerk. He had no right to be cheerful. He was supposed to be at home suffering, swearing off women forever and, hopefully, gouging his eyes out in agony. Maybe women ought to pass out instructions when they get into relationships. It would cut down on a lot of confusion.

The next message was from Nanny Honeycutt wanting to know how my visit with Gail had gone. I steeled myself and called her back.

She answered the phone like she’d been sitting on it, waiting for it to hatch. “Did you talk to her?” she asked when she heard it was me. This was a lady who didn’t waste a lot of time on small talk.

“Yeah, and it got me nowhere. But I’m going to take the case.” I said it fast before I could change my mind. I had no idea why I had agreed. It was just that I couldn’t walk away.

There was a silence. “God bless you,” she finally said.

I was embarrassed and covered it. “How about that appointment with Gail’s sister?” I asked.

“Brenda is expecting you anytime tomorrow,” she said, and I realized she knew I’d take the case all along.

“There’s one more thing,” I warned her. “I need some answers.”

“About what?” she asked calmly.

“About a lot of things. Like, what is this I hear about your family starting a rumor that Roy Taylor was a dirty cop? Where’s that information come from?”

There was another silence.

“Well?” I asked, remembering what Bill Butler had said the night before.

Her tone was indignant. “There’s not a person in my family that would say such a thing. And if I heard them, they’d have to answer to me. Roy Taylor was a fine man and an honest policeman. No one would dare insinuate otherwise. My family does not lie.”

“They did about Roy beating Gail.”

The silence that followed this observation was downright poisonous. “Young lady,” she snapped, “I let myself be talked into shading the truth because I was desperate. It blew up in our faces. No more. It’s nothing but the truth from here on out. Take it from me, Roy Taylor was not a dishonest man.”

Well, how do you like that? Those Honeycutts had no concept that the truth was a moving target. They’d have made lousy politicians.

“Okay,” I said carefully. “Thanks for setting me straight.”

She hung up without wishing me a nice day.

It would have been a waste of words. Day had given way to night and it was barely four o’clock. Outside, it was dark, and rain clouds rumbled, ready to split open and pour. I’d done my work for the weekend and now I needed a way to fight off the residual doom in my heart. That meant an SOS to Jack.

In the realm of younger men, Jack reigned supreme, both as a lover and as a friend. He was handsome and fickle, with a talent for serious bodywork and a knack for making me laugh. He did not have a committed bone in his body and women who expected him to stay around longer than an evening were uniformly disappointed once morning came. But he was upfront about his failings and so god-awful cute that I loved him just the way he was.

We had known each other for almost five years, and, if you didn’t ask much of him, he delivered more than you would expect. He looked like a well-fed pirate, with dark Irish coloring, blue-black hair that curled around his nape, flashing eyes and the rosiest complexion I’d ever seen outside of a Bertie County peach. Jack was also disgustingly healthy, given that he was a bartender who kept horrendous hours and was not averse to a drink or ten himself. I knew Sundays were his days for lying comatose and recouping for the week of womanizing ahead. I was sure he’d be at home and willing to entertain the thought of a pizza.

He was. We argued awhile over whether or not to add black olives to the sausage and onions, but finally compromised by getting one large pizza with olives and one without. He promised to pick up all the extras that such a feast demanded and arrived at my doorstep within the hour, just in time for a double-feature horror-film festival on TNT. The thunder and lightning outside added to the atmor w to thesphere. We stuffed our faces and belched in companionable silence, our feet parked on the furniture and pizzas balanced on our bellies.

When the movies were over and the pizzas mere spots of grease on cardboard, we moved the party into the bathroom and reenacted a series of famous naval battles in my tub, sending bubbles and water splashing over the tile walls. Jack’s best quality is that he is resolutely immature. Well, maybe that’s his second best quality. His very best quality showed itself later on in the bedroom, where we romped for hours and thoroughly erased any signs of doom and gloom from our souls. He had me purring like a fine-tuned Porsche by the time we were done. By midnight, we fell as sound asleep as a pair of puppies after a wrestling match, belly to belly, snoot to snoot. 

I arrived at the office late the next morning, ready to tackle, if not the world, at least the Gail Honeycutt case. I still wanted to talk to Gail’s sister as a starting point, and Nanny Honeycutt had set up the appointment for me. And if I was heading over to the district attorney’s office anyway, I might as well aim high. Bobby D. could help. I found him parked behind his desk in all his obese majesty. I tossed him a box of Krispy Kreme doughnuts as a bribe. “Monday morning sacrifice to the gods,” I said.

“I am a god,” he agreed, though the closest he got to being one was his Buddha-like belly. God or not, he was no fool. “What do you want?” he asked, peeking inside and counting his treasures. Never mind that the flat box with green and white polka dots lying empty at his feet told me that he had already scarfed down a dozen that morning.

“Know anyone down at the D.A.‘s office?” I asked. “I want to talk to the head man for a minute or two.” If I wanted to hear what the other side said about Gail’s case, there was no better place to start than at the top.

Bobby D. groaned. “You’re going to take that damn Taylor case, aren’t you?”

“Look, old Nanny Honeycutt, who runs the family, shelled out plenty to hire an expensive lawyer to defend Gail. She didn’t get her money’s worth. She wants to try again. I want to help her.”

Bobby looked thoughtful. “If she could afford to pay double our usual rates, that would make the embarrassment worth it.”

“Embarrassment?” I repeated incredulously. “Bobby, you are physically, emotionally and constitutionally incapable of embarrassment. Can you get me in to see the D.A. or not?”

“Of course I can get you in, babe. Give me a minute or two.”

I sought refuge in my cubby while I waited. Bobby D. may be on the fast track to a heart attack, but he is a master at maintaining connections throughout the North Carolina judicial network. Like I said, he specializes in divorced middle-aged women starved for romance, and there’s one of those in every office in the state. Including the Wake County District Attorney’s Office.

“If you can get your gorgeous butt over there by eleven, my source can squeeze you in for fifteen minutes,” Bobby hollered down the hall.

“I’m on my way,” I yelled back, hightailing my gorgeous butt out the door.

The walk through downtown Raleigh gave me hope. Crocuses were starting to break through the well-trimmed grass on the Capitol lawn, and the bright copper dome of the building actually sparkled in the stray beams of sunshine. If only the clouds would move up north where they belonged, spring would burst out like a ripe peach, saving us all from permanent depression.

The Wake County courthouse offices were quiet on a Monday at mid-morning. Strategy meetings hummed behind closed doors. Secretaries yawned as they steeled themselves for another mind-numbing week ahead. And those hardy few who were actually working were already arguing their cases in courtrooms located on the upper floors. I found the office for Ham Mitchell pretty easily: the man must have been a megalomaniac, since signs pointed the way at three-foot intervals. Either that or he had Alzheimer’s.

Ham Mitchell had been Wake Country District Attorney for going on ten years now. His real name was Hampton but, take it from me, Ham suited him to a tee. Not only did he look like a big old pig wearing a stubby brown wig, he also hogged the cameras like a pro. He was always in front of a reporter, issuing statements on cases that were out of his jurisdiction and none of his damn business to begin with. He was also shameless about his ambitions: as soon as the state attorney general had the decency to die, Ham was planning to slide into the post quicker than a piglet slicked in grease.

In the meantime, he was practicing his intimidation skills. “Who the hell are you and what the hell do you want?” he demanded after I introduced myself. Well, gracious me, what ever happened to old-fashioned southern hospitality?

“Donna!” he bellowed out his door, but Donna had wisely beat a hasty retreat to the little girl’s room.

“Relax,” I said, sliding into one of those huge leather contraptions that pass for chairs in the offices of people who think they’re important. I inched my dress up over my knees and crossed my legs to appease his temper. Trust me, I know what I’m doing. “I just need ten minutes of your time to talk about Gail Honeycutt Taylor.”

That cheered him up. I do believe the o/p>elieve ld boy was fond of her memory. It had been one of his most publicized cases as district attorney. He had bellowed, stomped and cajoled his way to victory, taking great pride in sending yet another North Carolina woman to death row. His win put the state at the top of the charts when it came to female felons officially waiting to die. It probably made him proud. He was the kind of guy who shoved old ladies off the front-row pew at church each Sunday so he could get a good seat and show everyone how pious he was.

“Well, young lady,” he said, lacing his stubby fingers together. I forgave him the “lady” because he’d tacked on the “young.” He licked his lips. “What can I do for you in ten minutes?”

You have no idea what raced through my mind at that offer. But I thought ten minutes was probably eight more than he typically needed, so I held my tongue.

“You prosecuted that case,” I reminded him. “I’m looking into it on behalf of her family. She’s only got a month left before her execution. They want to be sure they’ve done everything they can do for her, so I’ve been asked to verify the evidence against her one more time. I was wondering if you could give me your impressions about the strength of her case, if you thought her defense had any merit? If there was anything I should look into? I am sure you would want to be positive before you sent a woman to her death.”

“It’s a shame when anyone has to die,” he said sadly. “But we must maintain the boundaries of civilization, young lady. An eye for an eye.” He oozed so much sincerity, I felt like wiping my shoes on the carpet.

I didn’t get into it with him. This state is full of sincere church-going people. Letting a bible-spouting hypocrite like Ham Mitchell get under your skin makes them defensive, and I admire them too much for that. So I let it pass. “It doesn’t make sense,” I said instead. “Gail and her husband always got along well until that night. Why would she suddenly kill him?”

“Got along?” he countered. “The man slapped her around, beat her, kicked her when she was down. You call that getting along? She just snapped is all. Picked up a gun and evened the score.”

“You believed her defense?” I asked, as close to speechless as I ever get. “Yet you went for the death penalty? If you believed her, wouldn’t that constitute mitigating circumstances? Wouldn’t life with a chance for parole have been a more appropriate punishment?”

He rolled his huge shoulders. “If every woman who was slapped around took justice into her own hands, there’d only be a handful of men left in this state.”

“What century are you from?” I asked incredulously. I just couldn’t help it.

“Pardon?” he asked, blinking his tiny eyes.

“You seriously believe that?” I said. “That must go over big at Junior League rallies.”

“See here, young lady,” he said. “Abuse is a serious matter and I don’t take it lightly. But it’s no excuse for taking another person’s life. Why even Gail’s own sister felt she deserved the death penalty.”

“I would doubt that,” I said emphatically.

“Then you would be wrong.” He rose, irritated, and his bulk seemed to fill the room. He was also starting to sweat. Was it my imagination or did he smell like barbecued pork? At any rate, I’d had enough. I’d get nothing out of him, that was for sure. My skeptical look said it all.

“Why don’t you go ask her for yourself?” he suggested. “She’s right down the hall. I have work to do. Donna!” he hollered again. This time, a well-dressed brunette in her late forties scurried into the room, notebook in hand.

“Sir?” she chirped, a professional smile curling her lips.

“Take this young lady down the hall to see Brenda Polk, would you? I have to attend to more pressing matters. I am sure Brenda would be happy to help her. I can’t understand whose idea it was to let her in to see me in the first place.”

“Why, it was your idea, sir,” she lied politely. “You thought it would be good for your standing with female voters if you appeared fair. Remember?”

“Oh.” He paused, momentarily confused, then picked up enough steam to sputter a dismissal. “I’ve changed my mind. Get her out of here.”

We filed out dutifully, with me feeling like the poodle who’s just peed on the new white rug. Well, I thought with determination, we’d just have to wait and see whose nose was rubbed in what.

“God,” I said when we were safely down the hall. “Is he always like that? I wanted to pop him with a pin to see if he’d deflate.”

“When he’s unrehearsed he is,” his secretary admitted. “Usually he has the office press secretary telling him what to say. You caught him off guard and he couldn’t read you, so he didn’t know what you wanted to hear.”

“How can you work for him?” I asked. “Scraping dishes down at the K&W would be more fulfilling.” Her friendship with Bobby D. aside, she seemed like a sensible lady.

“I have a front-row seat,” she explained. “Ham’s getting old and he’s owhad and hut of touch. Blabbing his mouth more and more at the wrong time. Worse, he’s starting to garble his bible verses. One day soon, he’s going to go down big time. I want to be around to see it. I’ve earned it. I can’t wait for the big show.”

We reached a small office at the end of a long hall. The door was shut. “I hope you get to see that show soon,” I told Donna and we slapped each other a high five good-bye. Sisterhood, ain’t it grand?

“Come in. It’s unlocked,” a raspy voice called out when I knocked on the frosted-glass window. Brenda Polk’s voice was much more cultivated and controlled than her sister’s.

She was a raw-boned woman with a determined face. She was on the short side, with a well-developed rib cage and skinny legs. I pegged her for a long-distance runner, both literally and figuratively.

“I’m Casey Jones,” I told her. “Your family met with me a few days ago.”

“Sit down,” she said. “I know who you are. Nanny called. There are some things we need to discuss.” She shoved an ashtray my way and lifted a bottle of Pepsi. “Want one?”

I shook my head. “No thanks, I’m trying to quit.”

“Cute. I’m not.” She took a swig, then flicked a slim cigarette from a nearby pack while she studied me. I doubted crossing my legs would help warm her up, so I kept still and waited. She lit the cigarette without ever once giving it a glance, telling me she was at least a two-pack-a-day smoker. I reconsidered the long-distance running theory.

“When Nanny Honeycutt gets her mind set on something,” she finally said, “there’s no stopping her.” She blew out a plume of smoke and watched it rise up to the ceiling. “I made the mistake of telling her about some crackpot caller who claimed to have new evidence that would help Gail. Now Nanny won’t let it drop. I should never have told her. It’s nothing, just a troubled individual with a guilty conscience. But now her hopes are up. I’m sorry I ever opened my mouth.”

She stared intently at me again and I wondered if my bra strap was showing. For a Southern woman, that was an impeachable offense.

“Can I ask you something?” she said.

“Sure.” I’m a sucker for that question.

“You bleach your hair, right? I mean it’s obvious. It’s almost white.”

“Sure.” I nodded.

“But you have at least two inches of black showing at the roots. Right?”

“Right.”

“Why?” She seemed genuinely interested in my answer.

I thought about it. “I bleach my hair because I can. It’s my head and I’ll do what I want to with it.”

“Okay,” she said. “I’ll buy that.”

“I let my roots grow out so that people know I have better things to do than sit around and obsess about it. Also, I’m too busy to care.”

She nodded thoughtfully. “I like it. It’s sort of a subtle screw you. I wonder what John would do if…” Her voice trailed off and she stroked her hairspray-stiffened helmet of short brown hair absently. “Naw. I don’t think so. But it looks good on you.”

“Thanks.” We stared at each other for a moment. “Ham Mitchell says you think your sister deserves the death penalty,” I said, getting right to the point.

“Ham’s a complete asshole. And that’s his best quality.”

“So you don’t want to see your sister die?” I asked.

“What kind of person do you think I am?” She locked her eyes on mine and I stirred uncomfortably. They were nearly black and hyper-alert. I doubted many people had the guts to get in her way. I had to fight the urge to duck every time she looked at me. “I did everything I could to help my sister,” she said slowly. “I always have. But it looks like we’re nearing the end of the line.”

“It looks that way,” I agreed. “Were you involved in the case?”

“Hell, no.” She looked at me incredulously. “You think they’d let me near it? Besides, I didn’t work here at the time. Ham hired me a few years later. I go by my married name. He didn’t even know that I was related to Gail until I’d worked here for six months. Then he walked around feeling proud of himself for the next five years. He felt that hiring me showed compassion and justice on his part.”