Injustice for all

30

It’s after midnight. I’ve already told Caroline that Hannah is missing. She was so upset that I decided not to tell her about the information I’ve learned from Bates, and I didn’t say anything about Ramirez. She’s gone to bed, but I doubt she’s sleeping. Both of us are in a state of semishock, punch-drunk from the emotional and psychological battering we’ve taken over the past week. Ray’s suicide, the news about Judge Green and the possibility that Tommy may have been involved, Hannah’s disappearance, and Caroline’s continuing battle with cancer have left us wondering whether we’ve been infected with some sort of contagious, cosmic disease that we’ve unwittingly passed on to our closest friends.

I’m sitting in my study, flipping through the Tennessee Criminal Justice Handbook. I find the section of the Tennessee Code Annotated I’m looking for:* Section 39-16-503. Tampering with or fabricating evidence. It is unlawful for any person, knowing that an official investigation or official proceeding is pending or in progress, to: (1) Alter, destroy, or conceal any record, document, or thing with intent to impair its verity, legibility, or availability as evidence in the investigation or official proceeding. A violation of this section is a class C felony.

The statute is clear. By burning Tommy Miller’s clothing and shoes after knowing that he was a suspect in a murder investigation, Caroline has committed a crime. She doesn’t realize how serious it is. The penalty for a class C felony in Tennessee for a first-time offender is a minimum of three and a maximum of six years in prison. If Caroline is caught, there’s no doubt in my mind she’ll wind up in jail. She’ll receive the minimum sentence because she’s never been in any kind of trouble, but there isn’t a judge in the state who will grant her probation for destroying evidence in the investigation of a murdered colleague. Even if she gets the minimum sentence and makes parole as soon as she’s eligible, she’ll serve nearly a year in the Tennessee State Prison for Women.

I think about the sentence Caroline is still serving, the one imposed upon her by breast cancer. She’s survived, but she’s been through six months of chemotherapy, nearly two months of radiation therapy, and half a dozen surgeries stretched out over twenty-two months. I’m confident she’ll beat the cancer, but now she’s up against the laws of man and the people who enforce them. If she’s found out, she won’t get any sympathy.

I know she didn’t intend to do anything illegal when she collected Tommy’s clothes and loaned him some of Jack’s, and I’m sure she rationalizes burning the clothing later by telling herself she was merely eliminating the possibility that the clothing could somehow be used to frame Tommy. She believes he didn’t kill the judge. In fact, she’s so firm in her conviction that I wonder whether something else is at play here, perhaps intuition. Caroline has always been intuitive, and her judgments about people have always been spot-on. But even if she’s right about Tommy, it doesn’t change her having made herself vulnerable to the system. If the wrong person finds out what she’s done and can prove it, they’ll steamroll her.

The other problem I have, of course, is my own criminal liability. Now that Caroline’s told me about burning the clothes, because of my position as an assistant district attorney, I could be charged with official misconduct if I don’t report it. Official misconduct is also a felony, although not as serious as tampering with evidence. Then again, perhaps I enjoy the protection of spousal privilege. She’s my wife. They can’t force me to tell them anything she’s said to me, and I didn’t actually see the clothing.

As I sit in the lamplight, I commit to a decision. Right or wrong, legal or illegal, I’ll do whatever I have to do.

There’s no way in hell my wife is going to prison, and neither am I.

I walk up the stairs and lie down on the couch in the den. I keep an old blanket folded over the back of the couch because I sleep there-or just lie there-quite often. On nights when I know I won’t be able to sleep or if something has happened that I think might trigger a nightmare, I head for the couch. There’s no point in keeping Caroline awake while I toss and turn, and there’s no point in scaring her with my dream- induced cries and ramblings in the middle of the night.

Rio crawls onto the other end of the couch and curls up. I turn the television on to Sports Center and listen as the talking heads drone on mindlessly, for the millionth time, about the long-term effects that the use of steroids by cheaters like Barry Bonds and Roger Clemens will have on the game of baseball. I think of Jack and how hard he’s worked over the years, drug free, and hope that the pressure of competition at the highest level never leads him down that path.

Thoughts of Jack cause me to consider the predicament he’s in. My conversations with Caroline have led me to believe that Jack had no idea what was going on with Tommy this morning. Tommy woke up before Jack did. By the time Jack saw Tommy, Caroline had already collected Tommy’s clothes and shoes and provided him with replacements that belonged to Jack.

Still, I’m sure Anita White will want to talk to Jack. She’ll want to know if he saw Tommy or talked to him after the funeral, and if he did, she’ll want to know exactly what Tommy said and did. She’ll want to know whether Jack noticed anything unusual about him. She’ll ask Jack the same questions I asked him, and if he lies, he’ll be in the same boat as Caroline. Making a false statement to a police officer about a material fact in an investigation is a class C felony in Tennessee.

The key to all this, of course, is Tommy Miller. Will he go against everything he’s learned from his father and what I’m sure his mother has told him and talk to the police? Will the TBI agents-who are experts at getting people to talk to them-be able to coerce him or pressure him or simply outsmart him? Will they be able to bring enough pressure or guilt to bear to loosen his tongue? If they do, what will he say? Will he tell them he was at our house during the time of the murder, hoping to use us as an alibi? Will he confess and tell them he gave his clothes to Caroline? Is there evidence the police can use against him in his car? If there is, will he be shrewd enough to get rid of the car in a way the police can’t trace? What would I do in his position? Would I burn the car and report it stolen? Disable the engine, tow it to a junkyard, and have it crushed for scrap metal?

My God, what a mess.

The last time I’m conscious of the clock, it’s three in the morning. I slip into sleep, and find myself running through a maze of mirrored walls, floors, and ceilings. Someone is chasing me. I come to a dead end and look at myself. I’m emaciated, nearly unrecognizable. Something has drained my body, perhaps even my soul. My skin is cracked, pale, and drawn so tightly against my bones that I resemble a skeleton. I shrink away from the image in horror and turn to run back in the direction from which I’ve come.

I take one step and see them. Anita White and Mike Norcross, guns up, come around the corner. I turn back and look into the mirror. I smash it with my fist.

On the other side of the mirror is a dark tunnel. I can see a dim light in the distance. I run toward it, but after only a few strides I feel myself falling, falling, falling through the darkness and down what I believe is a bottomless pit. Suddenly a parachute pops open above me. I land awkwardly and tumble, rolling onto my side as the parachute falls softly around me. I extricate myself from the chute and stand. I’m in complete darkness now, but I feel a weight on my shoulders. I run my hands up my abdomen, across my chest, and realize I’m wearing web gear now. I’m wearing boots and a Kevlar helmet. I have an M16 assault rifle strapped across my shoulders. A flashlight is attached to the strap on my web gear, and I flip it on. I’m in a cave. I hear a faint voice and cast the beam of the flashlight toward the sound.

“Fahhhhhh-eeee.”

I see an elongated mound. I bring the weapon around, pull the charging handle, and aim it toward the mound. I creep forward slowly. The floor of the cave begins to tremble beneath my feet. I shoulder the weapon. The sound grows louder.

“Faaaahhhh-eeeeee.”

It’s the voice of a female. I suddenly realize I recognize it.

The mound begins to erode as the tremors intensify. Suddenly, the clay that covers it splits, and I can make out what I believe is a face. It’s a body, slimy, in the early stages of decomposition. The lips are moving.

“Faaaahhhiiiinnnddd-mmmeeeee.”

The tremors stop; the body bends at the waist and sits up. The head turns toward me, and I find myself looking directly at what’s left of Hannah Mills’s sweet face.

“Find me,” she whispers. “Find me.”