The Sacrifice (25 page)

Mr. Humphrey nodded. “You've convinced me. He's guilty. Let's hear your defense.”

“The only eyewitness describes someone else. It's not a crime to be walking on the creekbank. There's no confession—”

“Wait,” Mr. Humphrey interrupted. “Could Bishop Moore be right and Lester still be the person he saw?”

Scott thought a minute. “A hat or a toupee?”

The older lawyer smiled. “Let's go with a hat. Isn't it possible that Lester was wearing a dark cap that fell off his head as he ran through the bushes or that he tossed it aside before the deputies caught him.”

“We don't know,” Scott admitted.

“And need to find out,” Mr. Humphrey finished.

Scott prepared a motion to continue the conspiracy case to another term of court as a precaution so he wouldn't have to try the cases back to back. He also hoped that once Davenport lost the first case, the second one would evaporate.

Shortly before lunch, the receptionist buzzed him. “Lester Garrison on line three.”

Scott picked up the phone. “Did you get my message?”

“Yeah. My grandmother phoned the school and got me out of class. What happened?”

“We need to talk in person. Can you come to my office this afternoon?”

“Where is it?”

“Downtown near the courthouse. It's a two-story building on the corner of Lipscomb Avenue and Trade Street.”

“Okay. I can be there by four o'clock.”

Scott had an appointment at four, but he could reschedule it. “That will work. See you then.”

Four o'clock came without any sign of Lester. After waiting fifteen minutes, Scott called downstairs and asked if anyone was waiting for him.

“No, sir,” said the high-school student who served as backup receptionist for a few hours in the afternoon.

At four-thirty Scott looked out the window to see if Lester was wandering up and down the street. There were people on the sidewalk but no sign of Lester Garrison. He called Thelma Garrison's number. No one answered.

At five o'clock his phone buzzed. The high-school girl said in a low voice that Scott could barely hear, “Your appointment is here.”

“What?”

“Lester Garrison. He goes to my school.”

“Okay. I couldn't understand you. Tell him I'll be there in a minute.”

Scott was walking down the hall when he met the young girl. Wide-eyed, she asked, “Are you his lawyer? Everyone at school has been talking about what he did at the black church. Or supposedly did,” she added quickly.

“Don't mention he was here.”

“I won't, Mr. Ellis. I know everything is confidential.”

Lester was slumped down in a chair in the corner of the waiting room. Scott offered to shake hands. Lester quickly wiped his right hand on his jeans before reaching out. Scott noticed that the young man's fingernails were full of grease.

“I had trouble with my truck,” Lester said. “It wouldn't start when I went out to the parking lot this afternoon. I think someone messed with the carburetor.”

Scott's hand felt oily as he showed Lester the way to the conference room. Lester put his hands on the table then picked them up when he saw that his fingerprints would smudge the shiny surface.

“Do you want something to drink?” Scott asked. “We have soft drinks, coffee, and water.”

“Uh, sure. Working on the truck made me thirsty, and I didn't have time to stop before coming here. Give me a water.”

Scott asked the receptionist for two waters. When she brought them in, she looked at Lester without speaking. He glanced up at her, and Scott thought he saw the hint of a scowl around the corners of the young man's mouth.

When she left, Lester grunted, “She goes to my school. Does she know anything about my case?”

“No. Your file has been in my office. Everything that happens here is confidential.”

Lester shrugged. “It hasn't been confidential at the high school. If the judge hadn't told me to stay in school or go back to jail, I would have dropped out. Everybody is talking behind my back, and there has been some harassment.”

He told Scott about finding the chain and note in his locker. “And that's not all. Last Friday I went into the rest room in the gym near the end of the day. Someone came in behind me and turned out the lights. There are no windows in there so I couldn't see a thing. I tried to find the door and two guys knocked me up against the wall. One of them punched me in the arm and told me not to come out until I had counted to twenty. Then they left.”

Lester pulled up his sleeve. In the center of the lightning bolts was a deep purple bruise.

“I think the guy had something metal in his hand to cause such a bad bruise.”

“Did you recognize the voice?” Scott asked.

“No, but I'm sure it was a black guy. They won't come out into the open and fight one-on-one.”

“Did you report it to the office?”

“What good would that do? I'm the only one who is going to look out for me. I have a right of self-defense, don't I?”

“But you don't need any fights,” Scott replied. “That will get you back to the YDC faster than anything else that could happen.”

“I'll do what I have to do,” Lester said flatly. “My chance will come.”

“Let me bring you up to date on the case,” Scott said.

He began with the phone call with Deputy Ayers.

“That's not the way I remember it,” Lester snorted. “They roughed me up before throwing me in the back of the patrol car.”

“Okay. And the gun?”

“Like I told you at the YDC. I was scared and tossed it in the creek. It shouldn't be against the law to carry a pistol along the creekbank, but when they came roaring down the road with the siren on and the blue lights flashing, I panicked. What would you do if the police surprised you like that?”

It was a good question, and Scott made a note on his legal pad. His client was barely seventeen and his conduct could be explained as an immature reaction caused by the stress of the moment.

Lester listened closely to Scott's summary of the conversation with Bishop Moore. Scott watched his client's eyes when he reached the part about the person with the dark hair. Lester's gaze shifted, and Scott couldn't follow where the young man's memory traveled.

“Do you have a black hat?” Scott asked.

“Uh, I have a black baseball cap, but I wasn't wearing it when I was arrested. I'd shaved my head a couple of days before and didn't have any hair at all. That means the preacher's testimony will help my case, won't it?”

Scott nodded. “I think so, but there are other things you have to consider.”

He outlined some of the strengths of the state's case. Lester didn't like what he heard.

“You sound like you're giving up.”

“No. Just being realistic. If I ignore the other side, we are more likely to get blindsided. I have to get ready to try this case and want to give it our best shot.”

“I'm not guilty. My father said it's your job to prove it.”

Scott decided not to mention that the state had the burden of proof. As a practical matter, juries often expected the defense to present a plausible alternative to the prosecution's case in order to gain an acquittal.

“Mr. Humphrey, the senior partner in the firm, is going to help at trial. He's one of the best lawyers in this part of the state.”

“Okay.”

Scott hesitated. He'd intended to mention the plea bargain, but decided it would be better to end the conversation and bring it up when Lester's father was present.

“When is your father going to be back in town?”

“I'm not sure. We never know until he shows up on the front porch.”

“When he comes in, I'd like to meet with both of you. In the meantime, stay out of trouble.”

Outside the office, Lester's truck refused to start. He cursed, got out, and raised the hood. He didn't want to run down the battery by turning the engine over again and again without effect. He unscrewed the wing nut that secured the cover for the air cleaner and set the round metal piece on the pavement. The carburetor was stained a deep brown but there wasn't any obvious obstruction blocking the flow of fuel.

“Need some help?” a voice behind him said.

Lester turned around. It was a tall, African-American man with graying hair. He was dressed in clean blue overalls and brown work boots. He looked at Lester through rimless glasses.

“No, I got it running a few minutes ago.” Lester went around to the cab of the truck and retrieved a screwdriver.

The man took a step back but didn't leave. Lester leaned over the engine and adjusted the idle screw. He checked again to make sure the carburetor wasn't locked in the choke position and climbed behind the wheel. He turned the key. The engine rolled over and tried to come to life but couldn't catch. When Lester got out of the truck, the black man was peering at the left side of the carburetor. He had Lester's screwdriver in his right hand.

“I don't need any help,” Lester repeated.

Ignoring him, the man pointed with the screwdriver. “Something is wrong with this spring. When you turned the key, it couldn't bring the butterfly valve to the right position.” He reached around the front of the carburetor, unhooked the spring, and held it between his dark fingers. He rolled it back and forth. “See, it's been twisted and doesn't have the tension it needs to work.”

Lester swore. “That's what they did. When I find out—” He grabbed the spring out of the man's hand. It flew from his grasp and rolled under the truck. Lester got down on his hands and knees and peered under the vehicle. The man joined him and in a few seconds said, “Here it is. It's hard to see in the shadows.”

The man handed the spring to Lester. “I'm sure you could get another one from Hill's junkyard for a buck or two. They have several older model cars and trucks with the same engine.”

“Yeah, I've bought some parts from them, but that's four or five miles from town.”

“I could give you a ride,” the man offered. “I don't have anything else to do.”

Lester hesitated. “Don't you work?”

The man smiled, revealing a shiny gold tooth in the front of his mouth. “I've worked plenty, but now I'm retired and loving every minute of it.”

Lester had never voluntarily been in a car with a person of another race. “What are you driving?”

“My truck. It's parked down the street.”

Lester was out of options. “Okay.”

The man stuck out his hand. “I'm Thomas Greenway.”

Lester shook the man's hand. “Lester Garrison.”

Lester lowered the hood of his truck and followed Mr. Greenway to the sidewalk. Mr. Greenway stopped in front of a dark blue Ford pickup that was the same year as Lester's. It had been beautifully restored. Lester's mouth dropped open.

“Is that your truck?” he asked.

“Yep. That's why I thought maybe I could help you out. I know most everything about this model.”

Lester ran his hand across the smooth paint on the hood. There was a narrow white stripe down the side and fog lamps beneath the front bumper. Mr. Greenway had replaced the standard wheels with chrome ones and put on larger tires than when the vehicle came off the showroom floor many years before.

“How long have you had it?” Lester asked.

“About five years. It wasn't in as good a shape as yours when I bought it, but the frame was solid and the body wasn't rusted. I've spent hundreds of hours on it, and more money than I could get back if I tried to sell it.”

Lester pressed the button on the shiny door handle. The door opened without a hint of a squeak. He sat down in the passenger seat. The vinyl was cleaner than a new plastic tablecloth. When the African-American man turned the ignition, the engine gave a deep-throated rumble.

“What kind of pipes do you have on it?”

“I changed it to dual exhausts and modified mufflers. I didn't want it to sound like a Harley, but I don't mind if people know I'm coming down the road.”

He backed out into the street. Lester rolled down the window so he could hear the sound that escaped through the baffles of the mufflers. They drove north away from the center of town. Riding in the truck, Lester forgot to focus on the color of Mr. Greenway's skin.

The junkyard was on a two-lane road that wound past small farms and a subdivision that contained ten or twelve modest houses. The owner of the junkyard lived in a rambling, red-brick home. He had fenced off a large field behind his house and filled it with rows of wrecked vehicles in various stages of decay. A small sign on the road read “Hill's Auto Salvage,” but the hundreds of cars in plain view made the sign superfluous.

Mr. Greenway pulled into a gravel drive and stopped in front of the small wooden building Mr. Hill used as an office. Behind it was a larger metal building devoted to systematic cannibalism of the most valuable parts from the vehicles destined for the fields. At the sound of the truck, the proprietor came out of the metal building.