Hour Game

Chapter 7

Harry Lee Carrick lived on Alarge estate on the eastern edge of Wrightsburg. As they drove over, King filled in Michelle on the jurist-turned-practicing-attorney.

“He was a lawyer here years ago and then went on the local circuit court and then onto the state supreme court for the last two decades. In fact, he swore me into the Virginia State Bar. His family goes back about three hundred years in the commonwealth. You know, those Lees. He’s well over seventy but sharper than ever. After he left the bench, he came back here, settled down at the family estate.”

“You said Junior was from the wrong side of the tracks.”

“Let’s say he’s occasionally strayed on the other side of the law. But from what I’ve heard he hasn’t been in any trouble for a long time.”

“Apparently until now.”

They passed a set of wrought-iron gates emblazoned with the letter C.

Michelle looked around at the expansive grounds. “Nice place.”

“Harry’s done well for himself and his family certainly had money.”

“Married?”

“His wife died when she was young. He never remarried and doesn’t have any children. In fact, he’s the last of the Carricks as far as I know.”

They caught a glimpse of a large brick home with white columns nestled among all the mature trees. Yet King turned away from the direction of the main house and drove down a narrow gravel road, stopping in front of a small clapboard structure painted white.

“What’s this?” asked Michelle.

“The opulent law offices of Harry Lee Carrick, Esquire.”

They knocked on the door and a pleasant-sounding voice called out, “Come in.”

The man rose from behind the large wooden desk, his hand outstretched. Harry Carrick was about five-nine and slender with fine silver hair and a ruddy complexion. He was dressed in gray slacks, a blue blazer, a white button-down shirt and a red-and-white-striped tie. His eyes were more the color of periwinkle than true blue, Michelle decided, and were also pleasingly impish. His eyebrows were thick and the same color as the hair. His grip was firm and his melodious southern accent as smoothly enveloping as three fingers of your favorite libation and an easy chair in which to enjoy it. His energy and manner were that of a man easily twenty years younger. In short, he was the Hollywood version of what a judge should look like.

Harry said to Michelle, “I was wondering when Sean would get around to bringing you to see me. So I felt compelled to take matters into my own hands, you see.”

He led them to chairs in one corner of the small room. Stout bookcases lined most of the wall space. The furniture all looked to be antique and well used. Cigar smoke hovered in the air like miniature cumuli, and Michelle spotted an old Remington typewriter on one side table, although there was also a PC and laser printer on Harry’s magnificently carved desk.

“I’ve altogether given in to the efficiencies of the modern age,” he said, his alert eyes observing her wandering gaze. “I resisted computers until the last possible moment and then threw myself wholeheartedly into their embrace. I reserve the Remington for correspondence with certain friends of advancing years who’d consider it positively disgraceful to receive a missive on anything but monogrammed bond paper graced with the touch of the manual typewriter keys, or else my own personal scrawl, which unfortunately grows ever more indecipherable. Growing old is so darn unappealing until you consider the alternative. I’d recommend always staying young and beautiful, like you, Michelle.”

Michelle smiled. Harry was quite the gentleman, and a charmer.

He insisted on making them tea and served it in delicately worn china cups with matching saucers. Then he settled down between them.

“Junior Deaver,” prompted King.

“And the Battles,” said Harry.

“Sounds like an odd couple,” remarked Michelle.

“The oddest,” agreed Harry. “Bobby Battle was brilliant and as tough as nails. He made his fortune through his own sweat and brains. His wife, Remmy, is as fine a lady as I know. And she’s made of steel too. She’d have to be, being married to Bobby.”

Michelle looked at him curiously. “You said ‘was.’ Is Bobby Battle deceased?”

“No, but he suffered a massive stroke recently. Not too long before the incident Junior is accused of, in fact. Not sure of his recovery prospects just yet.”

“Is that the whole family, Bobby and Remmy?” asked Michelle.

“No, there’s a son, Edward Lee Battle, though everybody calls him Eddie. He’s about forty. Bobby’s full name is Robert E. Lee Battle. We aren’t related. Lee was a given name for him, quite common in these parts, as I’m sure you can understand. There was another son, Bobby Jr., Eddie’s twin. He died of cancer when he was a teenager.”

“Then there’s Eddie’s wife, Dorothea. And Eddie’s younger sister, Savannah,” added King. “She just finished up college, I understand.”

“You said Eddie’s about forty and yet Savannah just graduated from college?” asked Michelle.

Harry said, “Well, Savannah was somewhat of a surprise. Remmy was over forty when that little bundle of joy arrived. Ironically, Remmy and Bobby were separated for some time before Savannah was born, and looked headed toward divorce.”

“What was the problem?” asked King.

“Remmy caught him with another woman, a prostitute. It wasn’t the first time; Bobby had an appalling affinity for those types. That was all hushed up back then. I really thought that was going to be the last straw, but then they patched things up.”

“A baby will do that for you,” said King.

“Do they all live together?” asked Michelle.

Harry shook his head. “Bobby, Remmy and Savannah live in the big house. Eddie and Dorothea live next door in what was the estate’s carriage house, but which is now a separate piece of property. I’ve heard rumors that Savannah may move away.”

“I imagine some of her trust fund is due upon her college graduation,” said King.

“And probably none too soon for her,” said Harry.

“I take it she doesn’t get along with her parents?” said Michelle.

“Let’s put it this way: Bobby was very much an absent father, and she and Remmy are both strong, independent women, meaning they don’t agree on much.”

“What do Eddie and Dorothea do?” asked Michelle.

Harry answered. “Eddie’s a professional artist and avid Civil War reenactor. Dorothea has her own real estate firm and does quite well.” Harry gave Michelle a mischievous grin. “Folks in the Battles’ social circle change domestic partners at an alarming rate and thus are often in the market for new and ever more luxurious housing. While good to Dorothea’s pocketbook, it must give the woman fits remembering who’s with whom on a day-to-day basis.”

“Sounds a little like Peyton Place,” said Michelle.

“Oh, we left Peyton Place in the dust years ago,” said Harry.

“And now we come to Junior,” added King.

Harry put down his teacup and reached for a file on his desk. “Junior was doing some construction work for the Battles. Specifically, work in Remmy’s bedroom closet. He’s good; he’s even done some work for me here, and for lots of people in the area.”

“And the crime he’s accused of?” asked King.

“Burglary. There was a hidden cupboard in Remmy’s closet where she kept jewelry, cash and other valuables. It was burglarized and the contents emptied. And there was also a secret cache in Bobby’s closet that was broken into. About two hundred thousand dollars’ worth, I understand, including, unfortunately, Remmy’s wedding ring,” said Harry. As he gazed through the file, he added, “And hell hath no fury like a woman shorn of her wedding ring.”

“And they suspect Junior because he was doing work there?” asked Michelle.

“Well, a certain amount of evidence seems to pin him to the crime.”

“Like what?” asked King.

Harry ticked the points off on his fingers. “The burglar accessed the house through a third-story window. The window was forced and a tool mark was left as well as a bit of metal from the tool that was matched to a crowbar owned by Junior. He also owns a ladder that would reach that window. In addition they found shards of glass in the cuffs of a pair of his pants. They can’t definitively match the glass found to the window at the Battles’, but it’s similar. Both are tinted.”

“You said he forced the window,” said King. “Where’d the glass come from?”

“Part of the window broke when it was forced. I suppose the theory is, he got the shards when climbing through the opening. Next we have shoe prints found on the hardwood floor in Remmy’s bedroom. They match a pair of boots found at Junior’s. There was some building material found on the floor of Remmy’s closet: drywall powder, cement, wood dust, the sort of thing Junior would have had on his shoes, considering the line of work he’s in. There was also some soil found there that has been matched to the ground outside of Junior’s home. Similar evidence was also found in Bobby’s bedroom and closet.”

“So they maintained separate sleeping quarters?” asked Michelle.

Harry raised a single thick eyebrow. “Knowledge that I’m sure Remmy would have preferred to keep private.”

“Okay, that’s all incriminating but still circumstantial,” said King.

“Well, there’s yet another piece of evidence. Or I suppose I should say two pieces. A glove print and a fingerprint that match Junior’s.”

“A glove print?” said Michelle.

“It was a leather glove,” answered Harry, “and those have definitive lines and such just like a fingerprint, or so they tell me.”

“But if he was wearing gloves, how did one of his prints show up?” asked King.

“Presumably, it had a hole in one of the fingers. And Junior owns such a glove.”

King stared at Harry. “What’s Junior’s story?”

“Junior declares his innocence vigorously. He was working by himself until the early morning hours at a new house he’s building for him and his family over in Albemarle County. He saw no one and no one saw him. So there goes any alibi.”

“When was the burglary discovered?” asked King.

“Remmy found it around five in the morning after she got home from the hospital. She was in her bedroom around eight the night before, and there were people in the house until around eleven or so. So the crime probably took place between, say, midnight and four.”

“Clearly within the hours Junior says he was working alone on the house.”

“And yet with all that,” said Michelle, “you think he’s innocent, don’t you?”

Harry met her gaze. “I’ve represented people who were guilty before; that comes with the territory. As a judge I’ve seen the culpable go free and the innocent occasionally locked up, and I’ve usually been powerless to do anything about it. Now, with Junior my firm belief is that he didn’t commit this crime for one simple reason: the poor fellow would no more know what to do with two hundred thousand dollars’ worth of cash, bearer bonds and jewels than I would trying to row my way to an Olympic silver medal in women’s fours and coxswain.”

Michelle looked surprised because while in college she’d done that very thing.

“Yes, my dear,” said Harry apologetically, “I researched you. I hope you don’t mind.” He patted her hand and continued. “Junior’s being an incompetent thief is clearly established. Case in point: years ago he stole some truck batteries from a local auto repair shop, only he didn’t bother to take them out of the bed of his truck when he went to that very same auto repair shop to have his truck worked on. That little blunder cost him six months in jail and demonstrates his lack of skill in the felony business.”

“Well, maybe he’s gotten better over the years,” said King.

“He’s doing the best he’s ever done with his contracting business. His wife makes good money. They’re building a new house in Albermarle. Why attempt a burglary at the Battles’?”

“Maybe with the new house they needed some extra cash. But if he didn’t do it, someone is trying hard to implicate him. Why?” said King.

Harry was ready for that query. “He was working there, so he’d be suspected. The person could have gotten his tools, shoes, pants and gloves from the trailer home Junior and his family are living in now. It’s in the middle of nowhere, and there’s often no one there.” He added, “Although the fingerprint is the most troubling. It would take an experienced person to forge that.”

“What’s his family like?” asked Michelle.

“Three children, the oldest around twelve. His wife is Lulu Oxley.”

“Lulu Oxley?” repeated Michelle.

“She’s the manager at a gentleman’s club called the Aphrodisiac. Actually, she told me she now also owns a piece of the business.”

“You’re kidding,” said Michelle. “The Aphrodisiac?”

“I’ve heard it’s actually quite nice inside—you know, not just a sleazy bar with topless dancers.” Harry added quickly, “Though I’ve never been there, of course.”

“That’s right,” said King.

Michelle looked at him. “Please don’t tell me you’ve been there.”

He hesitated, looked uncomfortable and then said, “It was just one time. A bachelor’s party for a friend.”

“Uh-huh,” said Michelle.

King sat forward. “Okay, maybe Junior didn’t mastermind the thing, but what if someone else did? That person knew Junior had access to the Battles’ mansion and enlists him to do it. The physical evidence is pretty damning, Harry.”

Harry was not deterred. “There is evidence against him… Too much, in fact!”

King didn’t look convinced. “Okay, what do you want us to do?”

“Talk to Junior. Get his story. Visit the Battles.”

“All right, suppose we check it all out and nothing pops?”

“Then I’ll talk to Junior. If he still maintains his innocence, I really have no choice but to move forward. However, if the commonwealth offers a reasonable plea deal, well, I’ll have to address it with Junior. He’s been in jail before; he has no desire to return.”

He handed King a file with all the particulars. They shook on it, and Harry turned to Michelle and took her hand. “And I have to say that finally meeting this charming young woman was well worth any price you might charge.”

“You’re going to make me blush, Harry.”

“I’ll take that as quite a compliment.”

As they left Harry and walked outside, Michelle said, “I love that man.”

“Good, because meeting him may be the only positive thing that comes out of this.” His cell phone rang. A minute later he clicked off. “That was Todd. Let’s go,” he said.

“Where to?” asked Michelle.

“A real fun place called the morgue.”