Scott Pratt - An Innocent Client

Landers had just picked up the photograph of Angel with the bruise on her face when the secretary buzzed.

“There’s a man on the phone says he has information about the Tester murder,” she said.

Landers punched the flashing button.

“Who is this?”

“My name is Virgil Watterson. I have some information you may be able to use.”

“What information is that?”

“My understanding is that a body part was found out near Picken’s Bridge?”

A crank call. Some pervert wanting to talk about the dead preacher’s dick.

“That’s right. What about it?”

“I crossed the bridge the night of the murder, around one in the morning. When I got onto the bridge, I noticed there was a car stopped right in the middle. As I got closer, I saw a woman standing outside the car near the railing. She could have thrown something in the water.”

What was this? A witness? Where had this guy been?

“Did you get a look at her?”

“Sure did. Her car was facing me in the other lane and she was walking back toward it. Caught her full in my headlights. Middle-aged woman, wearing some kind of animal print jacket and the tightest pants I ever saw. Bright red hair.”

Erlene Barlowe. It had to be her. Landers started scratching notes on a pad. “Would you recognize her if you saw her again?”

“Probably.”

“What about the car? You get a look at it?”

“Yes, sir. The bridge is narrow so I had to slow way down to get past her. It was a Corvette. A nice one.”

“Get a plate number?”

“No. Sorry.”

“What about the color?”

“It was dark out there, but I’m pretty sure it was red.”

“Was anyone else with her on the bridge?”

“I didn’t see a soul.”

“Anyone else in the car?”

“Not that I saw.”

“Why’d you wait so long to call and tell us about this, Mr… did you say your name is Watterson?”

“Yes. Virgil Watterson. I’m afraid it’s a little embarrassing.”

“Embarrassing?”

“I wouldn’t want this to get out.”

“Wouldn’t want what to get out?”

The man’s voice got quieter, as though he was trying to keep someone nearby from hearing what he was saying.

“It’s my wife, you see. I’m a married man.”

“So?”

“I’d been on a business trip and came back a little early. I was on my way to someone’s house.”

“Who is this someone?”

“I’d rather not say.”

The light came on in Landers’s mind.

“So you came back early from your trip and were going to visit someone besides your wife?”

“That’s possible.”

“And you didn’t go home until the next day?”

“That’s right.”

“And then you heard about the murder and put two and two together?”

“Exactly.”

“I understand,” Landers said. “So why have you suddenly changed your mind? Why are you coming forward now?”

“I can’t stop thinking about it. I dream about that woman on the bridge every night. I’m afraid you may have arrested the wrong person. My conscience just can’t bear it.”

Landers sat back and rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand. A steady pressure was beginning to build just beneath his temples.

“Is there anything else you want to tell me, Mr. Watterson?”

“Not that I can think of.”

“Would you be willing to give me a written statement if I need one?”

“I guess I could if I have to.”

“Would you be willing to testify in court?”

“I’d rather not.”

Landers wrote down Watterson’s address and phone number and told him he’d be back in touch. If Watterson was telling the truth, Erlene Barlowe could well have tossed Reverend Tester’s private part into the lake. Maybe even the murder weapon. Landers wrote himself a note to have the sheriff’s department drag the lake under the bridge again. They’d already done it once, after the cat found the dick, but they hadn’t come up with anything.

Since Watterson said the woman on the bridge was alone, Angel Christian was either still at the club or Erlene had taken her home. Either way, it probably took Angel out of the picture so far as the murder was concerned. Deacon Baker — that imbecile. Landers told him he was pulling the trigger too early. He told him the case was thin. Now it looked like Watterson might be right — they arrested the wrong person.

Landers sat there trying to decide what to do. He could go out and take a written statement from Watterson and add it to the district attorney’s file, but if he did that, Dillard would be entitled to a copy of the statement and Deacon would accuse Landers of sabotaging the case. Payback would be hell. Landers figured the better option would be to tell Deacon about Watterson’s call and force him to decide what to do. Landers had a pretty good idea what Deacon would say. He wasn’t one to openly admit a mistake.

Landers called Deacon’s office, and for once, he was in. Landers told him about Watterson and the woman on the bridge.

“Doesn’t sound like a very reliable witness to me,” Deacon said. Landers knew it. He knew Deacon would say something like that.

“You know what this means, don’t you?” Landers said. “If Erlene Barlowe was standing in the middle of the bridge that night and she was alone, we probably arrested the wrong person.”

“I don’t recall any of the Barlowe woman’s DNA being found on the victim,” Deacon said, “and it had to be dark out there. No way this guy could make a positive ID.”

“You didn’t hear his description. It was her.”

“So? What do you want me to do, Phil? You want me to publicly announce that we charged the wrong person with first-degree murder? What do I say? Oops? Gee, we’re sorry? Six weeks before an election? You’re out of your mind.”

“So you’re asking me to ignore a material witness in a murder investigation.”

“I’m asking you to ignore an unreliable and irrelevant witness who will do nothing but muddy the water and give Dillard more ammunition when we go to trial. As far as I’m concerned, we’ve got the right person. Her DNA was found on the body, she had contact with the victim earlier that evening, we have a witness who says she left the club at the same time as the victim, and she’s refused to talk to us. And what if we did dismiss on the girl and arrest Barlowe? What evidence do we have that she committed the murder?”

“She lied to me from the start, and I can’t quit thinking about that car. Watterson said he saw a red Corvette on the bridge.”

“Then find it! But until you do, I’d appreciate it if you’d stop trying to help the other side! ”

With that, Deacon hung up. Landers wadded up his notes and tossed them in the trash.

June 23

3:30 p.m.

On Monday, I called Phil Landers’s office to set up a time when I could take a look at the physical evidence they intended to present at Angel Christian’s trial. It was my right as a defense attorney and I was always diligent about doing it, but the meeting loomed like a dentist’s appointment for a root canal.

The bad blood between us went back more than ten years, to when I first began practicing criminal defense law in Washington County. Landers had been sleeping with a woman who’d just gone through an acrimonious divorce. The woman told Landers her ex-husband was a small-time pot dealer and asked Landers to arrest the guy as a favor to her. She gave Landers the make and model of her ex’s car and told him which bar her ex was likely to be hanging out in. She said if Landers would just wait in the parking lot outside the bar for her ex-husband to leave, he’d be sure to make an arrest for driving under the influence and probably find more than a little marijuana.