“Medical. My father-in-law has been shot, and we need an ambulance at 217 Magnolia.”

  “Who is this?”

  “Greg Stevens.”

  “I’ll dispatch an ambulance immediately. Is the door to the house open?”

  “I don’t know, but I’ll make sure it is.”

  “Medical personnel will be there shortly. Unless you have medical training, please don’t try to do anything yourself.”

  “I won’t, but I think he’s dead.”

  Trish looked up. Holt was staring at her with the brown eyes that she knew could bore a hole through a witness.

  “What jumps out at you from that?” he asked.

  Trish glanced down at the sheet again. “Mr. Stevens doesn’t seem very upset?” she offered.

  “Exactly. We can’t tell that without actually listening to the call, though. Look at the first line. He says, ‘My father-in-law has been shot.’ ” Holt leaned forward. “He doesn’t say Rex Meredith shot himself.”

  Trish’s mouth went dry. “You think Greg Stevens may have killed Mr. Meredith?”

  “I have no idea, but I would have asked him questions based on the 911 call.” Holt tapped the folder with his index finger. “And there’s no indication here or in the records at the DA’s office that he was ever interrogated. That makes no sense to me.”

  “If Mr. Stevens . . . ,” Trish started, then stopped.

  “I’d like to make a copy of the file,” Holt said.

  “I’ll do it for you,” Trish responded immediately as she stood up. “That way Lynn won’t get nosy.”

  12

  Holt left the sheriff’s office with a copy of the file in his hand and a commitment from Trish Carmichael to keep her mouth shut. In addition to the transcript of the 911 call, he had a toxicology report confirming that Rex Meredith was legally drunk with a blood alcohol level of .20 at the time of his death. A level that high could cause depression, dizziness, blurred vision, and difficulty talking, walking, and standing. As a depressant, alcohol may have nudged him closer to the brink of self-destructive action. However, the dead man’s blood alcohol level didn’t prove anything.

  The sheriff’s file also contained several newspaper articles, none of which mentioned the results of the toxicology test. Instead, the newspaper reporters focused on Rexford Meredith’s business, financial accomplishments, and the tragedy of his sudden passing. There was a simple quote from Valerie: “My stepfather will be missed and mourned by all who knew him.”

  Back at the DA’s office, Holt spread everything he’d accumulated on top of his desk. Objectively, he didn’t have enough to move forward with a criminal investigation. The 911 call could also be interpreted as referring to a self-inflicted wound. The gun that fired the fatal shot was found in Meredith’s hand. Extensive gunpowder burns on Meredith’s clothing proved the gun was held very close to his chest when fired. All those factors supported Butch Clovis’s conclusion that the cause of death was suicide. Holt leaned back in his chair and glanced out the window.

  There were enough legitimate cases on his credenza and in the file cabinets to keep him busy. There was a shredder beside his trash can. He could destroy the sheets of paper on his desk in less than a minute, go home, feed Henry, and forget about Rex Meredith and Greg Stevens. But Holt knew he couldn’t let the matter go. Not yet. He returned everything to the bottom drawer of his desk.

  Thursday morning, Holt and Belinda stood in the main courtroom behind the table reserved for the prosecution. Several cases had been added to the morning’s calendar at the last minute due to Judge Lomax’s taking an unexpected vacation the following week. The courtroom was filled with people. On the second row, Holt saw Bishop Pennington and another gray-haired black man. Holt leaned over the railing.

  “Business is booming,” he said. “I’m sorry, but there may be a wait before we reach the case you’re here for.”

  “I’ll just have to move my pickup basketball game to later in the day,” the bishop replied.

  “Can I play?”

  “Only if you bring Henry to be the ball dog.”

  Judge Lomax entered the courtroom. “Mr. Douglas, call the first case on the calendar.”

  Having Belinda with him was a big help. While Holt argued a motion or orchestrated the entry of a guilty plea, she got everything and everyone set up for the next few cases on the docket. She whispered to the defense lawyers where they stood in the day’s order of business so they could keep their clients informed. For unrepresented defendants, she called them forward and made a quick determination of whether they qualified for a court-appointed lawyer or would have to hire their own legal representation.

  When Samuel Byers’s case was called, Bishop Pennington and the man with him joined the defendant and his lawyer in front of the judge.

  “Good morning, Bishop,” Judge Lomax said.

  “Good morning, Judge.” The minister put his hand on the shoulder of the man he’d brought to court. “This is Zachary Byers, Sammy’s uncle.”

  The judge nodded to the other man and turned to Holt. “Proceed.”

  Holt outlined the terms of the plea agreement, then the judge asked the defendant the required questions. Byers hung his head the entire time. If his body language indicated the level of his remorse, the young man was sorry for what he’d done. There were no slipups, and the judge accepted the deal. As they turned away, Bishop Pennington and Zachary Byers put their arms around Sammy’s shoulders. The gesture made the courtroom seem like a church, and the railing an altar.

  Belinda tapped Holt on the arm to get his attention and handed him a file. It was one of the major items on the calendar and had been added at the last minute.

  “State v. Morton,” Holt said. “Hearing on defendant’s motion to suppress evidence.”

  Dirk Rangel stepped forward with his client, a college-age white male wearing a nice suit.

  “Ready for the defendant,” Rangel said.

  “Before we hear any testimony, give me a short summary, gentlemen,” the judge said.

  “There was probable cause for the initial stop of the vehicle due to malfunctioning equipment,” Holt replied. “When Detective Clovis approached the car, he saw a clear plastic bag containing a quantity of methamphetamines in plain view on the rear floorboard. The defendant was placed under arrest and taken to the jail.”

  The defense lawyer stood and shifted his shoulders. Rangel had cultivated a flair for the dramatic regardless of the situation. He gestured grandly with his right hand.

  “Judge Lomax, the evidence will show that my client’s car was stopped by Detective Clovis without probable cause in violation of the Fourth Amendment. Thus, any alleged contraband in the vehicle was illegally seized and cannot serve as the basis for a criminal offense. There is extensive judicial authority, beginning with Mapp v. Ohio—”

  “That’s enough,” the judge interrupted Rangel. “I’m familiar with the case law. I’m here today to determine the facts. Mr. Douglas, proceed for the state.”

  “The state calls Detective Harold Clovis.”

  From the middle of the courtroom a broad-shouldered man with a thick neck and closely cut brown hair walked down the aisle and through the gate in the bar. Even though it was the defendant who was trying to exclude evidence, the prosecution had the burden of proving there hadn’t been a violation of the Fourth Amendment’s prohibition against unlawful searches and seizures. Holt planned on meeting that burden of proof through the testimony of the arresting detective.

  Clovis could no longer catch a fleet-footed fugitive, but once he wrestled a suspect to the ground, the chase was over. No one escaped from the grasp of his powerful hands. Holt administered the oath, and Clovis sat down.

  “Please state your name and occupation.”

  “Harold Clovis, senior detective, Ashley County Sheriff’s Department.”

  “Detective Clovis, were you on duty the evening of April 23 of this year?”

  “Yes, I was patrolling in an unmarked car on the west side of town when I observed a 2012 Hyundai Sonata with a malfunctioning right-rear brake light. I turned on my blue light and pulled the car over in front of Morrison’s Quick Stop.”

  Clovis could testify on autopilot, but Holt knew there needed to be the give-and-take of question and answer.

  “Is it customary for a detective to make a traffic stop?” he asked.

  “All of the officers at the sheriff’s department are charged with keeping the streets of Paxton safe.”

  “Who was driving the car you pulled over?”

  Clovis pointed to the young man sitting by Dirk Rangel. “Paul Morton. I asked to see his driver’s license along with proof of insurance for the vehicle. I’d called in the license plate information at the time of the stop, which confirmed that the car was titled in Mr. Morton’s name.”

  “What did you do at that point?”

  “I told Mr. Morton his right-rear brake light wasn’t working, and that I could give him a ticket for malfunctioning equipment. He told me that—”

  “Objection to anything my client said,” Rangel interrupted. “There is no indication that he’d been given his Miranda rights and waived the right to have counsel present.”

  “Sustained,” the judge said.

  “What did you do next?” Holt asked.

  Clovis looked at Rangel as he spoke. “I turned on my flashlight and shined it in the rear of the vehicle. I saw a clear plastic bag lying in plain view on the floorboard behind the driver’s seat.”

  “What did you do at that point?”

  “I opened the back door of the car and took out the bag. Upon closer inspection I determined it contained a quantity of clear and slightly yellow rock-like crystals consistent with the appearance of crystal methamphetamine. I asked Mr. Morton to step from the car and placed him under arrest. I read him his Miranda rights and transported him to the jail.”

  “Did he make a voluntary statement at that time?”

  “Objection,” Rangel said.

  “Overruled,” the judge replied.

  “Mr. Morton stated that he didn’t know the plastic bag was in his car and claimed he’d loaned the vehicle to an out-of-town friend who’d driven it for several days. He then refused to give me the name of his friend.”

  “What did you determine about the substance in the plastic bag?”

  “A sample was sent to the state crime lab, and I received a report that—”

  “Objection on hearsay, Your Honor,” Rangel said. “The individual who performed the chemical analysis would be the only competent witness to testify on this point.”

  “Mr. Rangel, you filed a motion to suppress,” the judge said testily. “Do you want to turn this into a bench trial on the merits?”

  “No, sir, but we reserve our rights to dispute the identity of anything taken from the vehicle.”

  “Noted. The witness will answer.”

  “The bag contained crystal methamphetamine.”

  “That’s all from this witness,” Holt said.

  Holt returned to the counsel table. Belinda leaned over to him. “What is Rangel going to argue when this case gets in front of a jury?” she whispered. “That his client was hauling cotton candy for a birthday party?”

  Rangel stood and approached the detective. Holt knew the two men had sparred many times before.

  “Detective Clovis, what happened to my client’s car when you took him to jail?”

  “It was towed to the secure lot beside the jail.”

  “Is that the lot surrounded by a ten-foot fence topped with razor wire?”

  “Yes.”

  “While my client was your guest at the jail, did he have access to his car?”

  “Not until he posted bail.”

  “Would anyone else have access to the car?”

  “Not without permission from the sheriff’s office.”

  “That’s why it’s called a ‘secure lot,’ correct?”

  “Yes.”

  Rangel looked up at the judge. “Your Honor, that’s all from Detective Clovis,” he said.

  “The state rests,” Holt said to the judge.

  “Mr. Rangel, do you have any evidence to present?” the judge asked.

  “Yes, Your Honor. The defense calls Dale Brown to come forward and be sworn in.”

  Holt turned sideways in his chair and watched as a man dressed in dark blue mechanic’s overalls stained with grease walked down the aisle. The man glanced around nervously as he came through the railing and approached the witness stand. Rangel administered the oath.

  “Mr. Brown, tell the court who you are and what you do.”

  Brown turned in his chair so he was looking up at Judge Lomax. “I’m Dale Brown. My brothers and I own a garage on Westover Street.”

  “Mr. Brown, do you know my client, Mr. Paul Morton?”

  “Yes, sir. We’ve done work on his car.”

  “Was his car in your shop in April of this year?”

  “Yes, sir. He brought it in for an oil change and a twenty-three-point inspection.”

  “As part of a twenty-three-point inspection, did you determine if the brake lights were functioning properly?”

  The witness pulled a wrinkled sheet of yellow paper from the front pocket of his uniform. “Yes. I got a copy of the work order here with me. It says we changed a bulb in one of the rear brake lights and checked the others.”

  “What was the condition of the brake lights when the car left your shop?”

  “They was working.”

  “Do you have an extra copy of the work order for the judge?”

  The witness dug in another pocket of his overalls and pulled out a white sheet of paper.

  “Yes, I made a copy like you asked me to do.”

  Rangel took it from the witness and walked over to Holt, who made sure it was for the right car and handed it back to him. Rangel raised the paper in the air like a banner.

  “Your Honor, we tender Defense Exhibit 1.”

  “No objection,” Holt replied.

  “Admitted.”

  Rangel placed the exhibit on the bench in front of the judge.

  “Mr. Brown, when was the next time you saw Mr. Morton’s car?”

  “Over at the jail.”

  “Why did you see it at the jail?”

  “You called me and asked me to check it out.”

  “How did you obtain access to the secure lot surrounded by a ten-foot fence topped with concertina wire?”

  Belinda leaned over to Holt and whispered, “I thought it was razor wire.”

  “Not now,” Holt replied. “I think I know where this is going, and I don’t like it.”

  Brown shifted in the chair. “We do work on county vehicles, so I went by to see Sheriff Blackstone and asked if he’d let me check out Mr. Morton’s car. He took me to the lot hisself.”

  “Was Sheriff Blackstone with you at all times while you were in the secure lot?”

  “Yes, he told me he couldn’t let me go out there by myself.”

  “Tell the judge what you and Sheriff Blackstone did.”

  “He had the keys to the car. I asked him to get in and start it up and then press on the brakes to see if the lights was working.”

  “And did the sheriff do as you requested?”

  “Yeah. The lights came right on.”

  “Both sides?”

  “Yes. Then I got in the car and pressed the brakes while the sheriff stood behind the car and watched.”

  “What did he see?”

  Holt was on his feet. “Objection, Your Honor. That would be hearsay.”

  Rangel stretched up to his full height. “Judge, I served a subpoena on Sheriff Blackstone prior to coming to court this morning but agreed that he could attend to his official duties and be on standby. He’s ready to fully corroborate the testimony of Mr. Brown on the matter before the court.”

  The judge looked down at the witness. “Did you check the wiring of the lights?” the judge asked.

  “Yes, sir. I popped open the trunk and there weren’t nothing wrong with the wiring and the bulbs was screwed in tight.”

  “As a mechanic, is there any explanation why the brake lights worked for you but may not have come on a few days earlier while Mr. Morton was driving the vehicle?” the judge asked.

  “No, sir. They either worked or they didn’t.”

  Judge Lomax looked at Holt and then Rangel. “Based on the testimony of this witness, I’m going to grant the motion to suppress. Please prepare an order and provide a copy to Mr. Douglas.”

  Holt turned around and looked for Butch Clovis. The detective was no longer in the courtroom.

  “Your Honor, may I be heard?” he asked.

  “Other than the testimony of Detective Clovis, do you have any other evidence on this issue?” the judge asked.

  “No, sir; however, I respectfully urge the court to give greater weight to the testimony of a detective with over twenty years of experience than the opinion of Mr. Brown.”

  “In this case, I find Mr. Brown’s testimony about the condition of the car credible,” the judge replied. “Therefore, I’m granting the motion.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor,” Rangel said.

  Holt returned to the counsel table and leaned down to Belinda. “Call the sheriff’s department as soon as we’re finished. I want a meeting with Clovis before I leave this afternoon,” he said.

  “You’d better check with Ralph first,” Belinda said. “If anyone is going to get chewed out, he’ll want the first bite.”

  “Mr. Douglas,” Judge Lomax said. “Let’s get going. Please call the next case.”

  13

  Trish didn’t get home from work until 2:30 a.m. She and Nick Watkins had arrived too late at the house on Highland Drive to catch the suspect, who’d already picked up the car. They ended up tracking the man from one end of Ashley County to the other before finally cornering him at an abandoned house at the end of a long gravel road.

  Marge was watching a preacher on TV as Trish walked through the living room to the kitchen that morning.

  “I didn’t hear you come in last night,” she said.