Dead Peasants (18 page)

59

Over the next couple of weeks things slowly returned to normal. Colby made one last search of her property and arranged to have it razed. She sat on a neighbor’s lawn across the street with her arms wrapped around her knees and Killer beside her, watching the bulldozer work. When the last of the dump trucks drove away, she teared up but promised herself it would be the last time. Jack convinced Colby that she didn’t need to be running all over town alone; so, Colby cleared it with her boss to work part time out of the house and have other realtors show houses if necessary.

One morning Jack turned on the computer in the RV to find a Request for Production of documents from Ace Leyton. Leyton wanted every document in June Davis’s possession that might have Willie’s writing on it. That included checks, income tax returns, savings accounts, scraps of paper where he might have written down measurements in the garage, wall calendars, applications for social security, anything that they might use to establish Willie’s signature on the employment agreement was really his. Jack leaned back and thought.
Well, well
,
Ace is worried about that insurable interest issue at the time of Willie’s death. He must figure that even if he prevails with McDowell, the appellate courts might reverse him. This could be interesting since June said Willie rarely signed anything. Might as well see what June has.

Jack reached for his cell phone and pulled up June Davis’s number. When she answered, he asked, “Morning, Mrs. Davis. This is Jackson Bryant. How are things with you today?”

“Just fine, Mr. Bryant. The kids have been working in the vegetable patch since their dad’s not around any more. I expect I’ll have you a basket full the next time we meet.”

“I’d appreciate that. I’m calling about your lawsuit. As you know, it’s going to trial in a couple of months. Allison’s lawyer is worried about this employment agreement and trying to prove Willie’s signature. He just sent me a formal request for any check books, tax returns, applications of any kind, wall calendars where he might have written a note, anything that bears his writing. Off the top of your head, what do you think you might have?”

“Maybe this is not a good thing, Mr. Bryant, but I’m a packrat. I don’t ever throw anything away. I have cancelled checks going back twenty-five or thirty years. We haven’t made enough money to file tax returns since Willie retired, but before that we paid a little income tax and Willie would have to sign the returns. Then, I put up a new wall calendar every January and keep track of kid’s and grandkid’s birthdays, weddings, funerals, that kind of thing. It’s possible Willie put something on it occasionally. I always roll up the old one and stick it in a box with the others. Willie was on Social Security and I remember helping him fill out the form. I’ll have to look to see if a copy’s around here.”

Jack shook his head as she rattled off the possible places for signatures. When she paused, he asked, “Can you gather all of that stuff up and get Willie, Jr. to bring it to my RV, say, day after tomorrow?”

June thought a minute. “Yes, sir. I should be able to get most of it together. If I turn up anything else, I’ll have Willie, Jr. make a second trip.”

Jack clicked off the phone with a sigh.

J.D. turned from the computer where he was drafting a petition, alleging fraud against a credit card company. “We have a problem on the Davis case?”

Jack rose to pour himself a cup of coffee. “I hope not. She apparently has a lot of places where we might find Willie’s signature.” Then he smiled. “Fortunately, I’ve been down this road before. If we turn up a signature or two, Ace will hire a questioned documents examiner to evaluate the writing.”

“I don’t understand, Dad.”

“That’s someone who is basically a handwriting expert. If you were to decide to become a trial lawyer, you’d learn that for almost any issue in a case, there are people whose opinions are for hire. Doctors in every specialty, accountants, engineers, accident reconstruction experts, you name it. This case could boil down to whether Willie actually consented to Allison Southwest taking out a big policy on his life, even though he couldn’t read that four pages of fine print and just signed where someone told him.” Jack said. “Most of us don’t read legal documents. Put yourself in Willie’s place. He was uneducated and needed a job. He was going to sign whatever they put in front of him.”

“But, Dad, isn’t that a defense? I mean if he didn’t know what he was signing, why should he be responsible?”

“Nope. Rule is that if you sign it, short of proving duress like maybe someone had a gun to your head or incompetence, you’re bound by what is in the document. Actually, that’s the way it should be. Otherwise, when one person tried to enforce a contract, the other guy could just say, ‘Poor me. I didn’t know what I was doing.’ Fortunately, I know an old boy over in East Texas who’s a first class document examiner. He talks country but no lawyer wants to have to cross examine him. And, like most of these experts, he’ll claim to call them as he sees them, but he knows where the butter is on his bread and he’ll tailor his opinion accordingly. Hell, I might as well call him now and get him hired before Leyton does.”

Jack scrolled through his contacts until he found Jeremiah Buchanan and placed the call. Buchanan lived in a small house down a dirt road outside of Palestine in East Texas. Johnny Bob Tisdale had recommended him many years before. He was a short, dumpy man who lived with two dogs he had found roaming the highway near his house. His frowzy white hair and mustache gave him the appearance of Albert Einstein, which he used to his advantage in front of a jury. He worked in a spare bedroom with large picture windows he had installed to bring the sun into his work area. To complement the sunlight, he had the ceiling filled with fluorescent lights. His desk faced one of the windows. To his right was a large bookcase, filled with a variety of magnifying glasses and microscopes. A laboratory table stood against the far wall. He worked there when it was necessary to establish the age of a document or ink. When his phone rang, he put down a magnifying glass.

“Buchanan, here.”

“Jerry, this is Jack Bryant. How are things in East Texas today? You seen my friend, Johnny Bob, lately?”

“Jackson Bryant,” Buchanan said. “I heard you retired. In fact I think it was Johnny Bob who told me.”

“I’m trying, Jerry. Moved to Fort Worth and started doing a little pro bono work just to pass the time. Wasn’t long before I was swamped. Look, I’m representing a widow lady named June Davis. We’re suing a company called Allison Southwest about some life insurance proceeds. Allison is represented by Ace Leyton. Has he contacted you on this case?”

“Nope. Sure hasn’t.”

“Then I want to retain you. I should have some documents in the next few days.”

“Tell me a little more, Jack.”

“They say my client’s husband signed an employment agreement about thirty years ago and buried in it was some language authorizing Allison to take out life insurance coverage on him and keep it on him even after he left the company. It’s a long story that’s not pertinent to you, but after her husband died, she learned that Allison had a $200,000 policy that paid double for accidental death and had kept paying the premiums even after he retired. They claim he agreed to it. Ms. Davis says she can’t confirm it was his signature. I’ll send you the agreement and whatever exemplars of his writing my widow can find by next week. Obviously, I’m hoping there is no comparison between the signatures.”

“You didn’t have to add that last comment.” Buchanan laughed. “I knew which side of the case you were on. Get the stuff on down here and I’ll have a look.”

“You got it, Jerry. And, this case is set in two months. Shouldn’t take you long to come up with an opinion. I just ask that you don’t let it sit on the back shelf too long. And, of course, I’ll send your usual $5,000 retainer.”

“Gone up, Jack.”

“Pardon?”

“Retainer’s now $7500. I’m swamped with all these damn mortgage lawsuits. Figured I might as well go up on my fees. Everyone else is making money on this mortgage crisis. I might as well take a little bigger piece of the pie.”

Jack put down the phone and gazed out the window.

“What are you thinking about, Dad?”

“Just going over the
Davis v. Allison
facts in my mind, trying to figure out if we need any discovery ourselves. Right now I don’t think so. We have June, and I figure that Buchanan will come through for us. Whoops, almost forgot to get an insurance expert. I can take care of that with a phone call. They’ll call Allison and maybe another employee or two and find their own document examiner to swear that the signatures match and, of course, a defense insurance expert. There’s always the possibility that we may have to subpoena someone on short notice, but that’s okay. I think we’ll be good to go. Willie, Jr. is coming in on Wednesday. Let’s you and I do a little more gumshoe work tomorrow.”

60

Jack turned Lucille across the highway and parked in front of the small police department in Breckenridge. They entered the front door into a room maybe twenty by twenty. One wall was filled with wanted posters. A back door led to the jail. Three desks filled the small space. Two faced each other along one wall and one in the middle had a nameplate with “Sheriff Luttrell” on it. The man at the desk wore a tan uniform with an open shirt. His sidearm rested in its holster on the desk while he worked on a computer.

As they approached, he turned. “What can I do for you?”

“Sheriff, I’m Jackson Bryant. I’m a lawyer and a reserve deputy over in Tarrant County. This is my son, J.D.”

Luttrell rose to shake their hands. “J.D. Bryant. Well, I don’t cotton to lawyers much, but I know who your son is; so you’re welcome. Have a seat.”

“Sheriff, we’re here trying to find out why someone has made three attempts on the life of a friend of ours. We’re checking into unsolved violent deaths in Fort Worth and surrounding counties, looking for a connection. It’s admittedly a shot in the dark.”

The sheriff folded his hands on his desk and said, “Go on.”

“Back in November there was a man named Jim Morris who was run over and killed in front of the pool hall here. Just wondering if you turned up any leads.”

“Hell, I remember it. Happened in a driving rainstorm and late at night. He got hit and the driver never stopped. May be that the driver never even saw him.”

“Can I ask a question?” J.D. said.

“Fire away.”

“Can you tell us anything about the victim?”

The sheriff rose to go to go to a cabinet where he pulled open a drawer and flipped through a few files. “Here it is,” he said as he returned to his desk. “I ran across Morris a time or two at the Dairy Queen or at Nellie’s diner. Quiet type. Let’s see. Now I remember. He was an auto mechanic for the Dodge dealer we used to have in town. They sold mostly Dodge Ram pickups. Old man Bridgers owned it; sold out to some mega dealer a few years back, but it was still known as Bridgers Dodge. Wasn’t but a couple of years later that the economy collapsed and the dealership closed. Bridgers died of a heart attack last year. As to Jim, he got a job with an oil field service company. Nice guy. Too bad what happened to him.”

“Thank you, Sheriff,” Jack said. “Here’s my card. Let me know if you remember anything else.”

“Sure thing and, J.D., we want us a national championship this year, you hear?”

J.D. just nodded and smiled as he turned to leave.

After they buckled up, J.D. said, “Where to now?”

“Brownwood is just a little piece down the road south of here. That’s where they found a man drowned below a bridge, but his Harley was back at the house. He worked at a feed store on the edge of town. That’s our next stop.”

The forty-five minute drive between the two towns was hardly a scenic route, particularly in the middle of the summer. Other than a couple of rolling hills, the land was flat. A summer drought left the landscape barren, save for a few mesquite trees and a good smattering of cactus. The water tanks were down by three feet and what few cows that were in the pastures huddled under the scant shade thrown off by the mesquites.

“Thank God for air conditioning,” J.D. muttered as he looked out the window.

Brownwood was announced by a few billboards, advertising motels, service stations, a McDonalds and a couple of churches.

As they approached the town, J.D. said, “There it is.” He pointed to a feed store to the right of the highway. Jack parked, and they got out of the pickup. “Must be a hundred and ten in the shade.”

J.D. pointed to a thermometer on the building as they climbed the steps. “You should have been a weatherman. The thermometer registers one hundred and nine.”

The sign over the door read “Johnny and Don’s.” Little more than an oversized shack, the store smelled of hay and horse feed, the two main products sold by Johnny and Don. The walls were covered with saddles, bridles, reins, cowboy hats and an assortment of gimmie caps. What little light that filtered in came from the front door and a back bay where customers could load their pickups.

A man, wearing overalls with no shirt came from a side room, pushing a dolly loaded with dog food. “Just a minute, gentlemen. I’ll be right with you.”

He pushed the dolly over to a wall where there was other dog and cat food and left it. He pulled a bandana from his pocket and wiped the sweat from his brow. “I’m Johnny. Now, what can I do for you?”

“Name’s Jackson Bryant. This is my son, J.D. We’re from Fort Worth and are following up on a series of violent deaths in connection with some attempted murders in Fort Worth. Victor Henry worked here a while back, didn’t he?”

“Yep, he sure did. Was a good hand. Me and Don hated to lose him. Hold on a minute. I need to grab a bottle of cold water. You two want one, just fifty cents apiece?”

Jack nodded his agreement. Johnny stepped to a refrigerator behind the counter and withdrew three bottles, handing one each to Jack and J.D. Jack handed him a dollar.

“Boy, I tell you what,” Johnny continued, “This here is about the hottest summer I’ve ever been through. What do you want to know about Victor?”

“Start from the beginning,” Jack said.

“Well, he showed up here one day on his Harley. Said he had been a counterman at a Ford dealership in Abilene. He got to work one day and found it was closed. He’d been riding all over this part of the country looking for work. I can tell you gentlemen that jobs are hard to find these days. We’d just put up a sign looking for a hand. Only paid minimum wage, but he took it.”

“What can you tell us about his death?”

“Not much more than what was in the paper. Well, one of our deputies is a customer of mine so he filled in a few details. See, Victor was a church-going man. He went to Wednesday night prayer meeting at the Baptist church just down the road here. He usually stopped for a bite at the Dairy Queen before church and then he’d ride home afterward. One Thursday morning he didn’t show up for work. Not like Victor. I drove out to his house. He didn’t have a phone. His Harley was parked in the driveway. I went in the back door. He always left it open, you see. He was a neat man, always washed his dishes and made his bed before he went to work. His garden tools were lined up just so on the back porch. I looked around. No sign of him. I called the sheriff and went back to work. Two, three hours later they found his body in the shallow end of the lake, almost under the bridge.”

Jack took a long sip from his water and the other two men did the same. “Any guesses as to what happened?”

“Oh, yeah. My friend told me that he had marks on his neck like someone strangled him. They never caught nobody, though.”

“Anyone ever figure out why his Harley was back at his house?”

“Nope. That’s part of the puzzle.”

“You know the name of the Ford dealer where he worked before?”

“Hang on a minute.” Johnny walked to a table behind the counter. “I’m not much on filing,” he said as he rummaged through some piles of paper on the table. “There it is.” He held up a manila folder with two sheets of paper in it. “His file folder says he was last employed with Cowhand Ford in Abilene. I got a note here, saying I tried to call to get a reference, but the message said they were closed. Now unless you gentlemen want to buy a few bales of hay, I best get back to work.”

Jack thanked him for his time and they headed back to Fort Worth.

“What do you make of the fact that two of the victims were former employees of car dealerships?”

Jack shrugged his shoulders. “Actually, you can add Willie and Colby to those two. They worked for a car dealership, too.