“Because I testified in the first case.”
“But you testified for the prosecution.”
“And if by some miracle you get Jeb off the hook what’s to stop him from coming after me?” Worry and anger looped around the last words.
“Mr. Jones is ill. He has no desire to stir up trouble. He wants to reconnect with his son and live the remainder of his life in peace.”
She brushed imaginary lint from her pant leg. “And you believe him?”
“Yes.”
“Even if he was innocent, he’s been in jail for thirty years. That changes a man. He could be angry with anyone who helped put him there.”
“I assure you . . .”
Mrs. Stevens rose, raising her hand for silence. “I’m not interested in what you think. You strike me as an honest well-meaning woman, but I don’t think you are as worldly as you might like to believe. In fact, I dare say you are naive.”
Rachel rose, her back stiff with annoyance. “I’m not naive.”
“You are too young to know that you aren’t. You still believe that good wins over evil.”
“I know that it doesn’t.”
She stretched out her hand toward the main entrance. “No, you are a dreamer. And as much as I admire dreamers they are a danger. Now, I really have to be getting on with my day.”
The window that had briefly opened to the past slammed in her face. “Thank you for your time.”
Joanne Stevens escorted her to the door, said a polite good-bye and closed the massive door behind her. As Rachel moved toward her car she acknowledged that time was her enemy. Thirty years had dulled memories and those involved in the original case were now entrenched in lives they guarded closely. A win on the DNA front would be the first of many battles.
She got into her car and for a moment sat in the silence. Colleen had warned she was overdoing it. Joanne called her naïve. Morgan thought she was a fool.
“Luke, there’re so many uphill battles in the world.” Weariness draped each word.
Whiner. Her brother’s voice whispered out from the quietest part of her mind. Whiner.
Irritated, she opened her eyes and started the car. “F-you, bro.”
Get moving.
“Ass.” Energized, she drove. She dialed Bill Dawson’s number and her call went straight to voice mail. “Mr. Dawson. This is Rachel Wainwright. I’ve left you messages before. Please call me.”
She set the phone on her lap and at the interstate, opted to head west versus east. If she couldn’t grab Bill Dawson today, she had another person on her interview list.
As Joanne watched Rachel drive off in her beat-up old car, she reached inside a ceramic box and pulled out a cigarette and a lighter. Standing at the screen door that opened off her kitchen into the backyard, she flicked the lighter and held the flame to the tip of her cigarette until she could inhale deeply. She waved the smoke’s scent away from the kitchen.
She’d called Rachel Wainwright naïve but the truth was she was the fool. If she’d been wise, she’d never have agreed to speak to the attorney.
But she’d been lulled by a need for excitement to break up the boredom of a daily life revolving around grown children and a busy husband.
She wondered if she’d somehow opened a can of worms.
Those days in the house with Annie and Beth had been great fun. Thanks to Annie the house had been full of odd and exciting characters.
Out on the deck she flicked the ash into a potted plant. She’d remembered how annoyed her father had been. Be careful with whom you associate. Lay down with dogs and you’ll get fleas. She’d laughed. Called him stuffy.
When she’d been called to testify in Jeb’s case her father had hired an attorney. He’d been worried about the family reputation. But in the end her “walk” on the wild side had been chalked up to youthful foolishness. She’d earned her way back in to his good graces with a stunning marriage and by producing three strapping grandsons.
Daddy would not be pleased if he heard about Rachel Wainwright’s visit. At ninety-seven he still ruled the family and had a way of making her feel like a child.
She reached for her cell and dialed a number she’d not used in a couple of years. At the third ring, she received a curt, “Hello.”
“This is Joanne Stevens.”
“Joanne. It’s been a while. Why the call?”
“I had an interesting visitor today. Rachel Wainwright.”
“I saw her on the news.”
“She’s digging into the Jeb Jones case.”
“So I gathered.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I’ve nothing to worry about.”
“You were at his trial.”
“A lot of people were at his trial. Ms. Wainwright will be a busy woman if she plans to talk to all the people that testified against Jeb Jones.”
“So you aren’t worried?” She took a long drag on her cigarette and exhaled it slowly.
“No. I’m not worried.”
“Why are you so calm?”
“Because Jeb is guilty. And no amount of grandstanding by an upstart attorney is going to change that. Let Miss Wainwright have her little circus. It won’t make a difference.”
She inhaled and exhaled. “I don’t see how you can be calm.”
“You always were a nervous sort, Joanne.”
She stared at the glowing tip of her cigarette. “Do you ever think about Annie?”
A long silence snaked over the lines. “Sure. From time to time.”
“I dreamed about her last night.”
“Really?”
“She was laughing and singing. Everyone in the room was happy to see her.”
“Annie had a lot of talent. She could be amazing. But you and I both know she was not perfect. She had her faults.”
“You never liked her.”
“I saw her for what she was.”
She flicked a long ash into the pot. “What are you going to do if Rachel Wainwright comes to see you?”
“I’m not worried. I’ll deal with her. But then I don’t have as much to lose as you do.”
Rachel’s next visit was one that she’d been avoiding. Kirk Jones, Jeb’s son, was now thirty-nine and owned a garage
thirty minutes outside Nashville. Jeb had spoken of his son many times and his desire to reunite, but Kirk had had no contact with his father since Jeb had been sentenced.
She parked in front of the custom auto repair shop. The low one-story building with three large garages was located to the east across the Cumberland River. The area was up and coming and had a mix of residential and small industry.
Out of her car, she tightened her hold on her purse strap and moved toward the large glass doors leading to an office. Inside she found an old man sitting behind a desk piled high with pink order slips, auto catalogues, and several empty coffee cups.
The gray-haired man sported half-glasses and a blue shirt with the name Ronnie over the right breast. He glanced up at her.
“My name is Rachel Wainwright.”
He raised his hand and she noticed the phone receiver cradled under his chin.
She nodded and turned away, walking around the room to inspect the collection of automotive posters featuring trucks and bikini-clad women. There was a small table set up with a new coffeemaker and as tempted as she was to make herself a cup, she resisted.
A click of the receiver in the cradle had her turning as the older man rose. “I’m looking for Kirk Jones.”
“Is he working on your car?”
“No, sir. I know his father.”
The old man’s eyes widened with shock. “His daddy’s been in prison for more years than I can count.”
The whir-whir sound of a pneumatic drill echoed out from the garage. “Yes, I know.”
“They don’t speak.”
“I know. Is he here?”
A narrowing gaze sized her up. “Sure, I’ll get him.”
The man vanished into the bay and seconds later the drill silenced and a tall broad-shouldered man appeared in the office. He wore the same blue shirt as the old man but his was covered in grease, dirt, and sweat. Blond hair was cut short and he sported a goatee. Several tattoos covered well-muscled arms. Jeb had said his wife and son had really struggled after he’d left for prison. For the first year his wife, Dell, had visited him with the boy in tow but after the one-year anniversary of his incarceration she’d stopped visiting or answering his mail.