Scott Pratt - An Innocent Client

As he made his way south down Roan Street, Landers kept glancing at the photo of the dead preacher. He had reddish hair, semi-decent features, and wide sideburns that ran to the bottom of his ear lobes, a la Elvis Presley. Not a bad-looking dude, but certainly not in the same league as Landers.

“What’d you do to get yourself killed, Rev?” Landers said to the photo as he turned into the parking lot at the Purple Pig. “Dip the old wick in a vat of bad wax?”

April 12

10:20 a.m.

Caroline Dillard, wearing a sharp, dark blue Calvin Klein knock-off suit, took a deep breath, straightened her back, and strode up to the reception desk. Behind the bullet-proof window sat a dour, pudgy, middle-aged man with a dark widow’s peak crew cut and a jaw full of tobacco. He was seated, wearing a black pullover shirt with a stitched badge on the chest. Beneath the badge, also stitched, were the words “Washington County Corrections.” As Caroline approached, he spit brown tobacco juice into a Styrofoam cup.

Caroline picked up the sign-in sheet and smiled. “I need to see inmate number 7740,” she said. No one at the Washington County Detention Center seemed to have a name. Everything was tracked by number.

The officer leered. “Got an ID, pretty lady?”

“My name is Caroline Dillard,” she said. It was only Caroline’s third visit to the detention center, and she hadn’t encountered this particular officer on either of the other two occasions. She reached into her purse, pulled out a driver’s license, and slid it into the metal tray at the bottom of the window.

“You a lawyer?” he said.

“I’m a paralegal for Joe Dillard.”

“You his wife?”

“I am.”

“You’re too pretty to be married to him.”

Caroline sighed. “If you’ll check the approved list, you’ll find my name.”

The officer opened a spiral notebook next to him and took his time searching the pages.

“I can smell you through the window,” he said. “You smell good.”

“I’ll be sure to tell your boss you like the way I smell.” Caroline looked at the name stitched opposite his badge. “Officer Cagle? The sheriff comes to our house every year for a Christmas party. He and I have gotten to be pretty good friends.” It was a lie. The sheriff had never set foot in Caroline’s home, but it seemed to have the desired effect.

Officer Cagle looked down and slid the ID back through the window.

“You know the way to the attorney’s room, ma’am?”

Caroline nodded and smiled.

“I’ll buzz you through.”

Caroline quickly made her way through the maze of gates and steel doors. She was a little anxious about the visit, because she never knew what kind of mood the inmate she was about to see would be in. The woman had been in jail for nine months, by far the longest stretch she’d ever done. She’d stolen her own mother’s checkbook, forged a check, and used the money to buy cocaine. Caroline’s husband, Joe, had represented her. He’d talked the prosecutor into reducing the charge from a felony to a misdemeanor, but because of the woman’s long history of problems with the law, in exchange for the reduction the prosecutor had insisted that she forego probation and agree to serve her sentence in the county jail.

Five minutes after Caroline sat down in the attorney’s room, a female guard opened the door and stepped back to let the inmate inside. There were no handcuffs, waist chains, or shackles. The inmate wasn’t dangerous. There was no risk of escape, because she was getting out in a few hours. She smiled slightly and nodded when she saw Caroline.

Caroline rose from her seat and opened her arms. “How are you?” she said.

“I’m fine,” the woman said, guardedly returning the hug.

“You look great.”

“You look pretty great yourself.”

They both sat down and Caroline smiled at her sister-in-law, Sarah Dillard.

Caroline was always struck by the features her husband and his older sister shared. Both of them had thick dark hair, green eyes, pristine white teeth, and lean, sturdy bodies. Sarah’s only visible flaw was a tiny pink scar that cut like a lightning bolt through her left eyebrow, the result of a punch from a drug dealer the last time she was on the street. She had high cheekbones, a strong jaw, and a cleft chin. Joe had told Caroline that he and Sarah were often mistaken for twins when they were kids. The comparisons stopped when Joe began to grow to six-foot-three and approached two hundred muscular pounds. Caroline also marveled at the resilience of Sarah’s appearance. She had a fresh beauty that made it hard to believe she’d been abusing herself with drugs and alcohol for years.

“I was wondering if you’d made a decision on what we talked about last week,” Caroline said.

Sarah looked down at the table. “I’m not too hot on it if you want to know the truth.”

“Why not?”

“I’m too old to live with my brother, Caroline. I’m too old to be living with you. I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but I think I’d be better off making my own way.”

Caroline looked hard into the green eyes for a long moment.

“So you’re going to make your own way. Like you have for the past twenty years?”

“Oh, now, that hurt. Please tell me you didn’t come all the way down here just to insult me.”

“I came all the way down here to try to talk some sense into that thick head of yours. If you don’t come stay with us, where are you going to go? What are you going to do?”

“I have friends.”

“What kind of friends? Dealers and users? You need to stay away from those people.”

“Yeah?” The green eyes flashed, but Caroline held her gaze. “What I don’t need is a lecture from my brother’s wife. Why are you doing this, anyway? Why isn’t Joe here?”

Caroline leaned forward on her elbows. “I’m doing this because I care about you. We both care about you. We just want to try to help. And Joe isn’t here because he can’t stand to see you in this place again. It tears him up.”

“Seeing me in here tears him up? He ought to try living in here for a while. It’d give him some compassion for his clients.”

“He has plenty of compassion for his clients, especially you. He’s done everything he could possibly do for you, including sending you money every month.”

“I’ll be sure to send him a thank-you note when I get out.”

“Why do you have to be so cynical, Sarah? Why can’t you believe that somebody could care enough about you to want to help? That’s all it is. There aren’t any strings attached.”

“No strings? What if I feel like getting high tomorrow night?”

“I said there weren’t any strings. But there will be rules. If any of us sees one sign of drugs or booze, you’re out the door.”

Sarah smiled. “And there it is. We’ll love you Sarah unless you do what you’ve always done. If you do that, we won’t love you any more.”

“We’ll still love you. We just won’t help you destroy yourself.”

“No thanks.” Sarah rose from the chair and moved to the wall to push the button that summoned the guard.

“So that’s it? No thanks?”

“That’s it.”

“Fine.” Caroline got up from her chair and moved to the opposite door. Both women stood in uncomfortable silence, facing away from each other, until the guard appeared.

“The offer stays open,” Caroline said as Sarah walked out of the room. “All you have to do is show up.”

April 12

11:15 a.m.

Agent Landers knew there’d be some added pressure to make an arrest because the dead guy was a preacher. Not that there wouldn’t have been pressure to find out who killed him if he’d been a plumber or a bartender. But preachers still had a special place in the hearts and minds of most upper east Tennesseans. Killing a man of God was an insult to the Almighty Himself.