Part 16 (1/2)

Adams was a young, bombastic buffoon. He claimed to be a direct descendent of President John Adams, and even had a brother named Quincy. He also claimed to have ancestors that traveled to America on the Mayflower and loved to regale anyone who would listen with stories of the hards.h.i.+ps endured aboard the s.h.i.+p, as though he'd experienced them first hand. He wore lots of tweed and cardigan sweaters beneath his black robe and smoked a curved pipe. But he knew nothing about the law. He didn't know the rules of criminal procedure, didn't know the rules of evidence, and interpreted written opinions and case law with the logic of a third grader. He'd had more rulings reversed on appeal during his first year in office than most judges acc.u.mulated in a decade, yet he seemed unfazed, blissfully unaware of his own incompetence, bathed in the power of the mystical black robe.

”You okay?” Tanner whispered.

”I'm fine.”

”Rita was right. You look awful.”

Judge Adams took his seat and surveyed the crowd. He had judge-length strawberry-blond hair that he parted in the middle, a small nose between small, hazel eyes, a narrow face and cheeks flushed by the legendary amounts of Scotch he consumed each evening.

The bailiff called the case and I looked over at the six lawyers. Collins Brubaker, the president of the Tennessee Bar a.s.sociation who I'd insulted when we arrested Nelson Lips...o...b.. was the only one I recognized.

”Feeling a little outnumbered, Mr. Dillard?” the judge said. Tanner and I were the only people at the prosecution table.

”Outnumbered, maybe, but not outgunned,” I said.

Brubaker stood.

”Collins Brubaker, appearing on behalf of Nelson Lips...o...b.. your Honor. The defendants are waiving their right to appear at arraignment. They also waive their right to a formal reading of the indictment. We have an agreement on bail, which the court has already signed.”

”The state moves to revoke bail,” I said without standing. ”We'd like them held in jail pending trial.”

”But Mr. Dillard signed the bail agreements,” Brubaker said. ”Unless there has been some material change in circ.u.mstance-”

”I signed the agreement before Nelson Lips...o...b..disappeared and two of our witnesses were murdered,” I said. ”I've changed my mind.”

I heard scrambling behind me as the reporters jockeyed for position.

”Order!” Judge Adams said, banging his gavel dramatically. ”What are you talking about, Mr. Dillard?”

”Two people who testified before the grand jury and who would have testified against these defendants were murdered last night. Their throats were cut and they were placed in the driveway outside of my home. We tried to serve an arrest warrant on Nelson Lips...o...b..this morning, but the sheriff's department can't find him.”

The scrambling turned to silence. I looked over at the group of lawyers at the defense table. Only Brubaker was standing. He'd apparently been elected to serve as the mouthpieces' mouthpiece.

”Your honor,” he said, ”even if, in fact, two people have been murdered, as Mr. Dillard claims, it has no bearing on this proceeding unless he has proof that these defendants were somehow involved.”

The nausea still lingered, and I found his voice irritating. I thought about walking over and smacking him across the face the same way I'd smacked Lips...o...b..

”Even if, in fact, two people have been murdered?” I said to him. ”Are you calling me a liar? Do you think I'd walk in here and lie about something like this?”

”You'll direct your comments to the court, Mr. Dillard,” Adams said, ”and you'll stand up when you do so.”

”Forgive me if this sounds insensitive, your honor,” Brubaker said, ”but if Mr. Dillard's witnesses are deceased, perhaps the question we should be asking him is whether the state still has enough evidence to sustain this outrageous prosecution.”

Judge Adams looked down on me.

”Well?” he said.

I stood. ”Well, what?”

”Do you have enough evidence to sustain the indictment?”

”I have no intention of revealing the evidence we've developed to you or anyone else this early in the proceeding,” I said. The law required me to provide discovery to the defense after arraignment, but I didn't have to do it immediately. I had some time. Not much, but I had some time. ”If you're asking me whether I intend to ask you to dismiss the indictment, the answer is absolutely not.”

As I spoke, I began to feel light-headed and felt and irresistible urge to leave the courtroom.

”Excuse me,” I said, and I started around the table toward the door. I took a couple of steps, and the lights seemed to go out. I felt myself falling forward, and then I felt nothing at all.

Chapter Thirty.

When I woke up, I heard a siren and realized I was in the back of an ambulance. An oxygen mask covered my face and there was an intravenous tube running from my arm to a bag on stand. A middle-aged man in a paramedic uniform was sitting next to me. Rita Jones was on the other side, holding my hand. Her eyes were red and her make-up smeared.

”What happened?” I asked.

”Thank G.o.d you're awake,” she said, squeezing my hand. ”Do you know who I am?”

”You're my promiscuous paralegal.”

She smiled broadly. ”Don't talk,” she said, ”just rest.”

”Caroline?”

”She's meeting us at the hospital. We're almost there. And don't worry about court. Tanner is taking care of it.”

I followed her advice and closed my eyes, feeling groggy and exhausted. I remembered the arraignment, remembered becoming angry at Brubaker, but beyond that, nothing. A couple of minutes later, the back door of the ambulance opened and the paramedic, along with another paramedic and either a nurse or an orderly from the hospital, unloaded me and wheeled me into one of the trauma rooms inside.

I spent the afternoon with doctors and nurses prodding and poking and asking me questions. I managed to get at least enough information out of them to learn that they believed I'd had some kind of ”cardiac episode,” which, in laymen's terms, meant I'd had a stroke. I couldn't believe it. Caroline showed up about fifteen minutes after I arrived at the emergency room. She didn't cry, didn't really give any outward sign of her concern, but the look in her eyes was that of a deer just before it's. .h.i.t by a car.

I was angry at myself for worrying her. Her day had started off with the bodies in the driveway, Lilly was pregnant, she still hadn't healed from her latest surgery, and now this. I asked her not to call the children until we knew exactly what was going on, and she agreed.

They moved me to a private room in the cardiac wing late in the day. Around four o'clock, a short, young black man entered the room. He was wearing the signature white lab coat and carrying a file. He walked up to my bedside and smiled.

”Mr. Dillard, I'm Doctor McKinney. I'm a cardiologist, and I'm going to be taking care of you.”

His voice was nasal, his diction perfect. He had no accent, very much like a radio announcer. He was slightly overweight with a double chin, and was wearing brown, corduroy pants, a yellow turtleneck s.h.i.+rt that was too tight for his build, and ugly, comfortable shoes. He was geek through and through, not a smidgen of cool in him. He looked like the type who had spent a great deal more time studying than partying, and that gave me some comfort.

”Nice to meet you,” I said. ”This is my wife, Caroline.” She was sitting in a recliner to my left. ”What's the verdict?”

”We think you had a transient ischemic attack, what most people refer to as mini-stroke, most likely caused by a build up of plaque that's blocking the carotid artery in your heart. We can't be certain, though, unless we go into the artery and take a look around. The stress test didn't show any abnormalities. I know you've been asked these questions before, but do you mind answering again for me?”

”Go ahead.”

”You don't smoke?”

”Nope. Never have.”