Scott Pratt - Injustice for all

Katie became aware of headlights coming down the driveway. They drew nearer. She heard a door slam, then heavy footsteps approaching. Someone was kneeling beside her. She looked at the face. It was Mr. Torbett, the nearest neighbor, a friendly, white-haired farmer with the longest fingers Katie had ever seen. Kneeling on the other side of Katie was Mr. Torbett’s wife, Rose.

“Katie!” Mr. Torbett cried. “Dear God, Katie. Are you all right? What happened?”

He reached behind her neck and lifted her head.

No! No! Don’t move me!

Razor-sharp pain shot through Katie’s body.

“The others,” she whispered, and the blackness enveloped her again.

The next time Katie opened her eyes, the woman standing above her was a stranger. She was pretty, middle-aged, with sharp features and hazel eyes. Her black hair was pulled tightly into a bun, and she was wearing white. Katie thought she might be an angel. She was fiddling with a bag of liquid that hung from a stand next to the bed.

“Where am I?” Katie said. Her mouth was dry, her tongue like sandpaper, but she felt as relaxed as she’d ever felt in her life. “Am I in heaven?”

“You’re in the hospital, sweetie,” the nurse said. She moved next to the bed and took Katie’s hand. “But you’re going to be fine.”

Katie smiled at the nurse and looked at her name tag. It said her name was June.

“Am I sick?” Katie said. “How did I get here?”

“You don’t remember?”

Katie thought for a moment, but she couldn’t remember. Truth be known, she didn’t care. She felt as if she were floating. She shook her head slowly.

“You had a little accident,” Nurse June said. “Just go on back to sleep now. We’re going to take good care of you.”

“Do you know Aunt Mary?” Katie said. “She works at the hospital.”

The angel turned away for several seconds. When she turned back, Katie thought she saw a tear slip from her right eye and run down her cheek. She wondered why the woman was crying.

“Yes, honey, I know her.”

“Is she here?”

“You just rest now,” the nurse said. “Your aunt Mary will always be there for you.”

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.