Injustice for all

12

I’m out of bed early the next morning. It’s Monday, and I want to get to the gym by six and get in a decent workout before I go back to the grind. It always makes me feel sharper and fresher, helps me to better cope with the insanity I deal with on a daily basis.

As I back out of the garage, I see an unfamiliar car parked in the yard off the driveway. It’s a white Honda Civic, an old one that’s beginning to be consumed by rust. I get out of my pickup and look inside the car, but there’s nothing that tells me who the owner might be.

I walk around the house and see nothing out of place. I walk back into the house and go upstairs. Lilly’s sound asleep, and I don’t see any of her friends crashed on the floor or anywhere else. I head downstairs to Jack’s room and as soon as I get to the bottom step, I know who owns the car. Tommy Miller is on the couch, fast asleep. The car outside is symbolic of the family’s financial collapse. The last time I saw Tommy, he was driving a new Jeep. I creep back up the stairs and head off to the gym.

A couple of hours later, I’m standing in the doorway of my boss’s office. Lee Mooney has just returned from yet another of his frequent weeklong vacations, one he decided to take immediately after the conference he attended in Charleston. Between the vacations and the time he spends at conferences and seminars, he’s out of the office at least two and a half months a year.

I find it difficult to look Mooney in the eye these days because I’ve come to know he isn’t what he seems to be. Not long ago, I sent his nephew-a fellow prosecutor named Alexander Dunn-to prison for extorting money from gamblers. Alexander said Mooney was involved. I believed him, but I couldn’t prove it.

Then there’s the progressive alcoholism. I’ve seen Mooney drink himself into stupors at two office functions in the past six months, and I smell the lingering odor of vodka on him often. There are persistent rumors that his marriage is failing. I’m certain he stands to lose a great deal if his wealthy wife divorces him, but his lechery has become legendary. He believes himself to be a gift that must be generously bestowed upon women of all shapes, sizes, colors, and ages. He pursues women at office parties and bar association meetings with both a dogged determination and a complete lack of discretion. His behavior has become increasingly erratic, and his life seems to be spinning out of control; yet he seems totally oblivious.

Mooney is sitting behind his desk, bracketed by the American and Tennessee flags. There’s a large, framed photograph of former president George W. Bush behind him. He has handsome features, with a strong jaw that outlines a lean face, but large, dark bags have formed beneath his eyes, and there’s a hint of purple in his cheeks. He has salt-and-pepper hair and a handlebar mustache that he fiddles with constantly. He’s wearing a brown tweed jacket over a white shirt and beige tie. His gray eyes are angry.

“What the hell’s going on with you?” he barks disdainfully. “I go away for a little while, and you dismiss a case outright after you’ve gotten your ass kicked in a hearing. Have you no sense of the public’s perception of this office?”

He’s talking about my case against Buddy Carver, the pedophile Judge Green allowed to walk away. He’s Monday-morning quarterbacking, and I don’t appreciate it.

“I’m taking Carver to the feds,” I say. “The federal laws are tougher, the jail terms are longer, and they don’t have a judge down there who sympathizes with pedophiles.”

“We need to make sure the public knows it when the federal grand jury issues an indictment,” Mooney says. “I’ll put out a press release.”

“Do you remember Brian Gant?” I say, changing the subject. “He was convicted of killing his mother-in-law and his niece a long time ago. I guess it was before you moved here.”

“What about him?”

“He’s about to be executed, and I think he’s innocent. I was wondering whether you might be interested in taking a look at the case. Maybe we should get involved.”

Mooney starts to answer, but is interrupted by the buzz of his intercom. He speaks in muffled tones, then looks back up at me.

“Let’s go,” Mooney says.

“Where?”

“I said let’s go!”

I shrug my shoulders and walk out the door behind him. When we get to the parking lot, he tells me to follow him in my truck. He’s tense and upset, more so than usual. He leads me to a wooded lot in an exclusive subdivision called Lake Harbor near Boones Creek. The driveway is asphalt and winds nearly a quarter of a mile through a stand of sugar maple trees toward a massive colonial-style brick house. We round a curve and top a small hill, and as we descend into a shallow valley about halfway to the house, I see it-the unmistakable activity of a crime scene. Vehicles, flashing lights, yellow tape, uniformed men moving slowly about. Mooney pulls over into the grass about a hundred yards short of the tape, and I do the same. As soon as I get out of the truck the smell hits me-the unique, acrid smell of burned flesh, and I jog to catch up to Mooney as he hurries toward the group of officers and paramedics.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” Mooney mutters, and I follow his gaze toward one of the trees.

A blackened body is hanging by its neck from a rope, which has been wrapped around a branch about eight feet from the ground and tied off around the maple’s trunk. The body appears to be a male, but beyond that, it’s virtually unrecognizable. Chunks of charred flesh cling to the limbs and torso. The lips and most of the face have been burned away, leaving only a garish snarl.

Ten feet to my right, a smaller tree-a Bradford pear-is lying across the driveway. A black Mercedes is parked perhaps five feet from the tree. A TBI agent is photographing the car. I recognize him and walk over.

“Agent Norcross,” I say. “Long time, no see.” I’d gotten to know Norcross when he worked a murder case with me a little more than a year ago-the Natasha Davis case.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Norcross says. He straightens to his full height, around six feet seven, and reaches out to shake my hand. “Joe Dillard.”

“Good to see you again. What can you tell me?”

There’s a large lump in Norcross’s left cheek-chewing tobacco-and he steps off to the side and spits a stream of brown juice onto the ground.

“This your case?” Norcross asks.

“Will be as soon as you catch the killer.”

“Looks like somebody hid out in the tree line over there for a while.” Norcross motions to a spot where two other agents are walking a grid. “Not really sure how long he was here, but from the look of it, he moved around quite a bit before he decided where he was going to set his little trap.”

“Trap?”

“The tree. The perp cut it down-looks like he used a saw of some kind-and it falls across the driveway. He waits back in the trees. When the victim leaves, he has to stop right here. He lives alone, and he’s far enough away from everyone else that nobody sees or hears a thing-at least we haven’t found anybody yet. The victim walks around to the trunk of the tree, starts tugging on it, and he gets whacked. There’s some blood on the tree trunk and scuff marks where the body was dragged across the lawn to the other tree over there. Then the perp douses him with kerosene or gasoline, strings him up, and sets him on fire.”

“Who’s the victim?” I ask.

Norcross grins. “You don’t know?”

“No. Why should I?”

“You’re serious? Nobody’s told you yet? He’s almost as famous as you.”

I shrug my shoulders.

“His name’s Green,” Norcross says, and a chill immediately goes down my spine. “As in Leonard Green. Judge Leonard Green.”