Dead Peasants (16 page)

51

June was seated at the end of the table in the RV, dressed in her Sunday best. Jack was sitting at the other end with J.D. seated in what used to be the driver’s chair. Now, both it and the passenger seat were always swiveled around to face the back.

“June, Mr. Leyton and the court reporter are going to be here in about half an hour. The court reporter will give you an oath to tell the truth. Mr. Leyton will take over and start asking you questions. He wants to try to prove that the signature on this employment agreement is that of your late husband.”

June nodded her understanding.

“Now I want you to tell the truth, but if you say it’s Willie’s signature, we’re going to lose the case. If there’s any doubt in your mind, it would be best for you to say you can’t identify it.”

“I understand, Mr. Bryant,” June said with a slight twinkle in her eye. “I think I can handle Mr. Leyton.”

Leyton and the court reporter arrived at the designated hour.

“Jack, it would have been a lot more comfortable to have done this in one of our conference rooms.”

“Maybe for you, but your fancy offices and big conference rooms might have intimidated my client. Ms. Court Reporter, if you’ll slide around the table to the middle, we’ll let Ace sit at the end. Ace, this is Ms. Davis.”

Ace nodded at the witness.

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Leyton,” June said. “Mr. Bryant has told me what a fine lawyer you are.”

She’s certainly not intimidated here,
Leyton thought as he took his seat. Jack took the passenger seat while Leyton put his briefcase on the table, opened it and retrieved the employment agreement.

“If you would, please swear the witness.”

The court reporter turned to June and asked her to raise her right hand. “Do you swear that you will tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”

“I do.”

“Mrs. Davis, I intend to make this very short. First, let me extend my condolences for the loss of your husband.”

“Thank you, Mr. Leyton. My family and I miss him. He was a fine, Christian man.” A tear rolled down her cheek, and Jack gave her a tissue to brush it away.

“I’m handing you a document that I’ve had the court reporter mark as Exhibit A. It’s an employment agreement between your husband and Allison Southwest. Have you seen it before?”

June straightened her shoulders and spoke in a strong, clear voice. “Mr. Bryant showed me a copy of it this morning. That’s the first time that I ever laid eyes on it. I can’t agree with your statement that it is an agreement between my Willie and Allison Southwest.”

Leyton realized that while June Davis looked as if she could be blown over in a modest wind, she was not going to be an easy witness. He fumbled for his next question. “Maybe you didn’t have a good copy. Would you please take a look at the exhibit?”

He handed the original to June who started reading at the top of the first page. It took her ten minutes to get to the second, and Leyton was becoming frustrated. “Mrs. Davis, perhaps if you just went to the last page, we could speed this up.”

June looked up from the document. “Mr. Leyton, you asked me about this document and I understand this is important. So, if you please, just be quiet until I’ve read it all.”

Leyton stared at the witness as she went back to her reading. “I’m going out for a smoke.”

Jack chuckled as he watched Leyton leave the RV and light a cigarette in the parking lot. He paced until, at last, he threw the cigarette on the ground, stomped it out, and climbed into the RV where he found June reading the last page line by line, moving her index finger along as she said the words to herself. When she got to the signature line, she studied it and then turned the page upside down to look again. Last, she turned it sideways before putting it back on the table.

“I have read the document, Mr. Leyton.”

“Then, can you identify the signature on that document as that of your late husband, William Davis?”

June looked at Jack and back to Leyton. “No, sir. I cannot.”

What the hell?
Leyton thought. “Mrs. Davis, would you explain why you cannot identify this as your husband’s signature?”

“Glad to.” June smiled. “Of course, you didn’t know my Willie. He wasn’t much for reading and writing. He only went to the fourth grade. When he wasn’t working at the Cadillac place, he was tinkering with his car, fishing or playing dominos with his sons or his friends at Moe’s icehouse. I took care of the family finances and paid the bills. I expect that if you looked at our checking account going back twenty years, you wouldn’t find one check with his signature on it. On top of that, this agreement is thirty years old. No way I would remember what his signature looked like that long ago. So, Mr. Leyton, I don’t know who signed ‘William Davis’ to that agreement.”

Leyton was fumbling again and already thinking of his call to Dwayne Allison after the deposition. “But, but, you would agree that it is possible this signature is Willie’s?”

“I suppose anything is possible, Mr. Leyton.”

Leyton announced that he had no more questions, grabbed his briefcase and left the RV. Jack watched with a smile as Leyton kicked the tire of his car before getting in.

After the court reporter left, he told June that she had done a great job. He was certain that Leyton would not even re-urge his motion. Now they would be getting ready for trial.

52

The financial pressure had begun to encroach on Leyton and his law firm. He was sitting at his desk one afternoon two weeks after June Davis’s deposition, talking to an associate about a case where their client was a trucking company. The company’s eighteen wheeler had run over and killed a man and his two young children in a Toyota Prius, leaving his wife surviving with no family. They were discussing strategy to defend damages, and the associate was reporting on the results of an investigator who had spent two weeks tailing the widow when Leyton’s intercom buzzed.

“Yes,” Leyton said as he blew out smoke and answered the phone. “Give me fifteen seconds and put him through.” He turned to the associate and asked him to come back later. When the associate shut the office door behind him, Leyton picked up the phone on the first ring. “Afternoon, Stephen. How are things in Manhattan?”

Stephen was Stephen Morganson, the managing partner of the nationwide law firm. “Hot and humid, Ace. I just keep hoping those green sprouts the economists talk about would start growing. Meantime, I spend most of my time on the phone, chasing after a bunch of clients that seem to be getting further and further behind.”

“I know what you’re calling about. It’s Allison Southwest, right?”

“You got it. They used to be our best client in the Fort Worth office. Now it seems like we only get a payment every once in a while. What are you going to do about it? Do we need to just terminate them as a client and sue for our past due bills?”

Ace took another deep drag on his cigarette before he spoke, knowing that Allison was his biggest client at one time and the primary reason he became senior partner in Fort Worth. As he exhaled the smoke he said, “No, we’re not there, yet. I’d say we should stick with them another few months. Allison may be turning the corner here before long.”

Silence on the other end of the line. “You have four months. If there’s no improvement, we’ll be talking about Allison’s status and your status with the firm along with it.” Morganson clicked off the phone without another word.

Leyton stared at the phone and then punched in the number to Allison’s private line. When Allison answered, he said, “Dwayne, Ace here. Just got off the phone with our managing partner in New York. He wants your bill brought current.”

“Screw him and the horse he rode up on,” Allison replied. “I have bigger worries than paying lawyer bills.”

“Dwayne, shut up and listen. I’m trying to do you a favor here. I have four months to get your legal affairs in order unless you start paying our bills. You’ve only got a few active lawsuits that aren’t covered by your liability insurance. One of them is June Davis. I’m going to ask Bruce to push it up toward the top of the docket. If the boys in New York fire you as a client in a few months, at least that one ought to be behind you. You okay with that?”

“Sure,” Allison replied. “Just be one less thing to worry about.”

That afternoon Leyton had an associate draft a motion for an expedited trial setting. Knowing the local rules required him to confer with Jack Bryant, he called his opposing lawyer. “Jack, I want to move this case along. You okay with a trial setting in about ninety days?”

“Damn, Ace, you didn’t even have to waste a call. Of course I’m agreeable. And I’ve already figured out that you get almost anything you want in McDowell’s court. Like old Brer Rabbit said, ‘Please don’t throw me in that briar patch.’ Hell, make it a joint motion. I’m not even going to bother to show up for the hearing. Just tell McDowell, I’ll be ready to go. Let me know the trial date after the hearing.”

53

It took a few weeks, but Joe Sherrod kept his word. His summer intern sent a list of violent deaths in twenty-five surrounding counties and parts of two states in the past six months. No guns, no knives, just violent deaths with little rhyme or reason and, more importantly, no suspects. J.D. printed off three copies. They locked the RV, watched as the metal shades slid into place and clicked on the alarms, knowing the lights would come on at sunset. Jack called Colby and asked her to meet them at his house to evaluate the information. Colby, now driving Jack’s Bentley, was already at the kitchen table with a glass of iced tea in her hand when they parked in the garage and entered through the back door. Colby gave both of them a hug, saying, “Damn, J.D., hugging you is like hugging a block of granite. Your body fat must be about three percent.”

J.D. nodded. “You’re pretty close. Any more and my forty time might be 4.7. Here’s your copy.”

Jack grabbed bottles of water and handed one to J.D. “We asked and we received; only, I didn’t anticipate how violent our world is these days. There must be two hundred unresolved violent deaths, and that’s just in the last six months.”

J.D. flipped to the last page. “Two hundred and fourteen, to be exact. What do you suggest?”

“Let’s divide them up. I’ll take the first seventy-five. J.D., you get the next seventy-five. Colby, the rest are yours. We can make duplicate copies; so highlight and mark anything you find interesting. Put an “X” by any that you think couldn’t possibly have any connection to the attempts on Colby’s life.”

The three assembled around the table and worked in silence, occasionally taking a sip of their drinks.

“Here’s a ten year old boy that was hit on his bicycle. Closed head injury,” Colby said.

Jack looked up. “I think for our purposes we can eliminate any kid under the age of, say, fifteen.”

“How about bar fights?” J.D. asked. “I see several on my list, usually in the parking lot with the assailant getting away.”

“They stay,” Jack said.

“Drownings?” Colby asked.

“For certain,” Jack replied.

“Here’s a hit and run outside a pool hall in Breckenridge,” J.D. said.

“Remember, Colby was close to a hit and run fatality,” Jack replied.

“Here’s Willie Davis. Sure appears to be accidental,” Colby said.

“Keep him on the list,” Jack instructed.

After two hours, Jack rose to stretch his legs. “I’m about through with my list. How’re you coming?”

“Done,” Colby said.

“On my last,” J.D. added.

Jack walked over to the old wooden barrel that contained his favorite canes. He picked out a shillelagh he had purchased several years before in Ireland. “This is made of blackthorn wood.” He turned it over in his hands. “I guarantee you I could put a knot in someone’s head with this.”

“That’s interesting, Dad. In one of these parking lot fights, the cause of death was a blunt object, like a baseball bat. Maybe it was a shillelagh.”

Jack nodded as he replaced the cane. “Give me a count.”

“I have eighteen on my list that I think deserve further investigation,” Colby said.

“Twenty-two, here,” J.D. said.

“And I have twenty. That’s sixty total, and we’re not even sure where we’re going with this. J. D., I think you and I’ll start in the morning.”

“Okay with me, Dad, but where do we begin?”

“Let’s start with Willie. He’s the only one with a known connection to Colby and since I represent his wife, that’ll make it easy.”

“But, Jack, aren’t you just wasting your time,” Colby said. “Everyone agrees that he fell crossing the creek, and hit his head.”

“Maybe, maybe not, but we’re starting in Denton in the morning.”

54

Jack was up early. He entered the kitchen, opened the back door and whistled for Killer. Killer’s job was to roam the fenced yard at night, growling a warning at any unusual sound. Once his night time chore was over, he was allowed the run of the house. Jack scratched his ears and thanked him for a good night’s service before refilling his bowl. After Killer had his breakfast, he knew Killer would find one of several comfortable places to sleep until Colby was ready to go to work. When Colby left for work, he would lie on the carpeted floor of her office until it was time for her to keep an appointment. Trained as an attack dog, he knew his friends and understood the commands that would turn him into a vicious protector of his master.

Jack put on the coffee and went to the front driveway to retrieve the
Star Telegram.
Never a breakfast eater, he settled down with the paper and coffee, starting with the sports section since he knew that J.D. would want it when he showed up. Five minutes later he heard J.D. coming down the stairs.

“Morning, Dad. How you doing there, Killer? You keep us safe?” he said as he petted the dog.

“Morning, Son. Grab your cereal, and let’s get on the road in about fifteen minutes,” Jack said, as he slid the sports section across the table.

J.D. poured a large bowl of Cheerios and doused the cereal with sugar and milk.

“Paper says you guys are starting volunteer workouts.”

“Yeah, we start this evening. We’ve encouraged all of the players to make the workouts. Most of them have stayed around Fort Worth for the summer. No coaches allowed, but Samuel knows every play on offense, and one of our linebackers will handle the defense.” J.D. put the bowl to his mouth and gulped down the last of his cereal. Both men grabbed go-cups, filled them with coffee and were soon in Lucille on the way to Denton.

Denton was thirty-five miles from downtown Fort Worth, straight up I-35W. Originally a sleepy college town, it was now just one more part of the Dallas-Fort Worth Metroplex that still tried to maintain its separate identity as home to North Texas State University and Texas Women’s University. The courthouse and the sheriff’s office were in the middle of town. Jack parked Lucille in a space reserved for officers and placed a cardboard card announcing it was the vehicle of a Tarrant County Reserve Deputy.

They entered the building and were met by an attractive receptionist with a professional smile. “Good morning, gentlemen. What can I do for you?”

“Morning, ma’am,” Jack said. I’m Deputy Jack Bryant with Tarrant County. This is J.D. We’re here to do some follow-up on an unexplained death a few months ago. The deceased was William Davis, lived up in the north part of the county.”

Jack took out his billfold and showed her his Tarrant County creds.

The receptionist glanced at them and turned to her computer. “Sergeant Reeves was the investigating officer. We don’t have any suggestion that there was any foul play.”

“Understood, ma’am. You think Sergeant Reeves could spare a few minutes with us?”

Five minutes later they were escorted into a small, featureless conference room, furnished with a table and four chairs. Jack and J.D. spent the next half hour talking football and staring at pale white walls. The door opened and a large black man dressed in jeans, boots and a white shirt entered. “Deputy Bryant, I’m Sergeant Reeves. How can I help you on this Willie Davis death?”

Reeves took a seat and put a small manila folder in front of him.

“First of all, I don’t want to be here under false pretenses. I am a reserve deputy, but I’m also an attorney and represent June Davis in some litigation that arises out of Willie’s death.”

Reeves remained silent.

“And there’s one more thing you should know. A friend has had two attempts on her life. Both remain open. There’s a connection to Mr. Davis in that they used to work at the same Cadillac dealer a number of years ago.”

Reeves opened the file. “I don’t think I can be of much help. I actually knew Mr. Davis. I played Little League with his son. Fine, gentle old man. I studied the scene myself. All I could determine was that it was accidental. Take a look.”

Reeves turned the file around so Jack and J.D. could see the photos of the body at the scene. One of them showed him head down in the creek with the back of his skull caved in.

“The back of his skull was crushed,” Jack said. “You figure that much damage could have been done just by a small man falling back on a rock. And how did he end up face down if he fell backwards? Did you consider that someone could have crushed his skull with one of those big rocks around the creek?”

A scowl crossed the sergeant’s face. “Look, Mr. Bryant, I don’t appreciate your questioning my investigation. I told you that I knew him personally. Yes, it was a lot of damage from slipping in the creek. I looked but found nothing to suggest anything other than an accident. Besides, there’s hardly any motive to kill an old man like that. Let’s see, he had $8.67 on him, a pocket knife and a little fishing gear. It was still at the scene. If you can prove it was a murder, more power to you; only we don’t have any evidence. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some real felonies I need to be solving.”

Reeves pushed his chair back, banging it against the wall, and left the room, taking his file with him.

J.D. looked at his dad. “I think that’s our signal to leave, too.”

“Yeah,” Jack said. “I wanted to tell him about the life insurance, but he didn’t give me a chance.”

That evening after football practice, Jack and J.D. drove to a bar north of the stockyards. Off the beaten path, it was definitely not on any tourist map. They parked in front and were met by the sound of mariachi music as they pushed their way through multi-colored beads hanging from the door. The smell of stale tamales mixed with that of beer. The music was loud and the patrons, all Hispanic men, raised their voices louder to be heard. They approached the bartender.

“Two Coronas, please,” Jack said.

The bartender turned to the cooler and handed them the beers. “That’ll be six bucks,” he said. Jack handed him a ten and told him to keep the change.

J.D. took a sip of his beer and surveyed the room. At one table four men were talking loudly and pointing toward them. “Dad, I get the feeling that we aren’t welcome here.”

Jack nodded and turned to the bartender. “I need some information.” He dropped a fifty on the bar. “Two months ago a man was killed in your parking lot. Looked like he was clobbered with a baseball bat. You got any idea about who did it?”

“No, senor. The guy that killed him wasn’t one of our regulars. At least, that’s what one of the witnesses said.”

About that time the four men rose from the table J.D. had been watching. J.D. said, “Dad, we’re about to have a little trouble.”

Jack dropped another fifty on the bar. “Look, we may be in a little hurry here. How about description?”

“It was dark. Someone said he was an Anglo, had long hair and a beard. That’s about all. There hadn’t been any ruckus in here. So I don’t know what caused it.”

The first man approached and stood in front of J.D. “We don’t like your kind in here. You see any other gringos?” The other three men pushed him almost into J.D.’s face.

J.D. decided that the best defense would be a good offense. He drove a shoulder into the chest of the first man, shoving him and the one behind him across the room and over a table. Before the one to his left could react, J.D. had kneed him in the balls. When he folded over, J.D. put him out with a right uppercut. The one to the right, a few feet in front of Jack, flicked open a switchblade and started toward J.D.

Jack raised his cane and flicked a button on the handle. A ten inch blade sprang from the end and into the man’s neck. “Drop your pig sticker, hombre, if you don’t want this one to slice open your neck.”

The Mexican may not have understood English, but he certainly understood the blade pressed against his neck. He dropped his knife as the room fell silent. J.D. picked up the knife and stuck it in his pocket. “Gentlemen,” Jack said. “We’ll be on our way. We seem to have overstayed our welcome.”

Jack flicked the button again, and the blade retracted into the cane. He nodded to J.D. and they pushed their way through the beads out into the night air. “Hell, J.D., I wasn’t in the mood for Mexican food anyway. By the way, don’t be carrying that switchblade around. They’re illegal in Texas.”

J.D. nodded his understanding, then said, “Dad, where’d you get that cane?”

“Bought it at a gun show a few years back. Hell, it’s illegal, too, but I never thought I’d use it. I have a few others with tricks in my collection. Remind me to show them to you sometime.”

When they drove away, J.D. asked, “Did we do any good, Dad?”

“Yep, Son, at least a little. We have the beginnings of a description of a killer, kind of matches that New Orleans police sketch. Not much, but it’s a start. And I don’t believe that Willie’s death was an accident. Now let’s go home. We have fifty-eight more deaths to go.”