Flesh and Bone (Body Farm 2)

I’d witnessed Burt’s press conferences in numerous other trials, and always before, his flamboyant theatrics had struck me as unseemly. They still did. “Is that really necessary?”

“Is it necessary? No,” he said. “Is it helpful? Absolutely. So far, everything that has come out in the media has been released by the prosecution or the police. And so far, everything makes you look guilty as sin.” He had a point there, I had to admit. “This surveillance video-together with Thomas’s written report and his DVD highlighting key differences between your truck and this mystery truck in the video-will make everyone realize that you’re the victim of an elaborate setup.”

It sounded good, but I knew not everyone would react as Burt was predicting; some would react as I invariably did, dismissing the entire performance as grandstanding. “I don’t know, Burt.”

“Bill, you’re paying me-and paying me a lot-for the benefit of my experience and legal skill, right?”

“Right…”

“Every bit of experience and skill I have tells me this is a crucial step toward building a strong defense for you. A courtroom trial doesn’t occur in a vacuum. The judge, the prosecution, and I will all bend over backward to pretend that it does; to pretend we’ve got a jury completely untainted by news coverage. Truth is, that’s bullshit, and we all know it. Our side is way behind so far, Bill. We have to start getting some good licks in.”

I still didn’t like it, but it made sense. Just as Burt’s other ploys had made sense, I supposed, to his other clients. I recalled the old saying about not judging another man until you’d walked a mile in his moccasins; at the moment, it felt like I was running a marathon in some mighty stinky footwear, with something unpleasant squishing up between my toes. “Damn,” I said. “Okay, go ahead.”

“I think we need to take a couple more quick steps in your rehabilitation, too,” he said.

“What steps?” The word underscored that squishy feeling between my toes.

“You need to be with me at the press conference. Then you need to move back home. Come out of seclusion.”

“Come on, Burt,” I said. “There were cameras all over the death scene, and my house, and the booking facility, and my house again. How can you ask me to live in that kind of fishbowl?”

“There’ll be a big flurry of interest when we file this motion and release the video analysis,” he said, “but it’ll die down in twenty-four hours and things will stay quiet until the trial. You need to start acting like an innocent man again. Take a cue from Bill Clinton, Ronald Reagan, Dick Cheney, and all those other Washington bigwigs. Even when they’re being accused of all manner of evil, they smile and wave for the cameras. And people think, ‘That nice man-he couldn’t have done those dreadful things!’”

“Would I have to answer questions at the press conference?”

“No, I’ll head that off at the start. Just hold up a hand, and look regretful that I’m not allowing you to comment. It’s all part of the game, Bill. If you can think of it as a game, maybe it won’t be so intolerable. And if you’ll play by the media’s rules even a little bit-give them some footage to help fill that gaping hole they have to fill every night-they’ll stop painting you as a villain. You’ll be surprised how the tone of the coverage will shift. I’ve seen it a hundred times.”

“Okay, counselor,” I said. “You win.”

“That’s good,” he said, “because Chloe’s already called all the news outlets to tell them the plan.”

I just shook my head. “Incredible. Where should I meet you, Machiavelli, and when?”

“My office. One forty-five. We’ll walk to the City County Building to deliver the motion at two, and hold the press conference outside right afterward. That gives the TV stations plenty of time to get the story on both newscasts to night.”

“And you really think this will help?”

“It has to,” he said. “This could be our one shot before the trial. Once the DA sees we’re fighting back, he might ask for a gag order. Or maybe the judge will decide to impose one on his own. In any case, we have to swing for the fence.”

At one-thirty, I pulled into the garage at Riverview Tower. Upstairs, Chloe greeted me warmly. “You ready for your close-up?” she said.

“Don’t rub it in,” I said. “I really hate doing this.”

“I know,” she said. “Not everybody basks in the limelight like Mr. DeVriess does. But this will help things, it really will. I have a friend who works at the News Sentinel, and she says this is the talk of the newsroom. They’re assigning three investigative reporters just to look for that truck and dig up other story angles they might have missed. Oh, and Larry King and 20/20 have already called.”

“Larry King? 20/20?! How the hell did they get wind of this already?”

“We’ve had high-profile cases a time or two before,” she said. “We don’t call people at the national level very often, but when we do, they know it’s a good story.”

“Lord, what have I done? I should never have let him talk me into this.”

“Yes you should. Can I tell you something, just between us?” I nodded warily. “If you tell Mr. DeVriess I said it, I’ll get fired.”

“My lips are sealed,” I said, holding up three fingers in the Boy Scout sign.

“I don’t always respect our clients, and I don’t always like what Mr. DeVriess does for them. But you’re different. And he knows it. What he’s doing might help save you.” She looked suddenly shy. “It might help save him, too. Does that make any sense?”

“You mean make up for some of his other cases? Redemption?” She nodded. “Stranger things have happened,” I said. “Especially lately.” I heard DeVriess’s office door open and his Italian shoes clicking down the hall. I held a finger to my lips and gave Chloe a conspiratorial wink. She winked back. I hoped the image of her wink, and the generous impulse behind it, could carry me through the surreal gamesmanship of the next hour.

“Keep up,” Burt said as the elevator reached the lobby. “Walk briskly, with purpose. Smile, but not too big, and nod occasionally to acknowledge the cameras. Hold up a deferential, apologetic hand every third or fourth question.” With those instructions, we pushed out the lobby door onto the sidewalk of Gay Street, into a waiting mob of reporters. I saw cameras from all the local TV stations, as well as CNN and Fox News. I counted a dozen or more still photographers, too, as well as what I estimated at close to a hundred spectators. Where had they all come from? And why?

I followed Burt’s instructions to the letter, partly in hopes of creating the desired effect, and partly to have something to do besides flee or hide my face like a minister arrested in a prostitution sting. Burt brushed off all questions on our way into the City County Building, pausing only to say, “As soon as we file this motion to dismiss, we’ll have a statement, and we’ll distribute copies of the exculpatory evidence we’re basing the motion on.”

It took a grand total of sixty seconds to file the motion in the court clerk’s office. The staff there gave Burt a look of weary forbearance-they had been through this routine with him countless times before-but I noticed several of them eyeing me closely. As we left the building, Burt led the media horde to a set of steps at one side of the plaza, where he-and I-could ascend and display ourselves to better advantage. The clamor of questions was almost incomprehensible. Burt held up both hands, signaling for silence, and as if on cue, a thicket of microphone booms swung into position above his head. “We have just filed a motion to dismiss all charges against Dr. Bill Brockton,” he said. “We have dramatic new evidence that proves conclusively-contrary to what the prosecution claims-that it was not Dr. Brockton’s truck that entered the Body Farm in the hours shortly before Dr. Carter’s body was found.” Another round of questions roared, but Burt ignored them and continued with his script. “That truck-the mystery truck-was driven by someone intent not only on killing Dr. Carter but also on destroying Dr. Brockton. When we solve the mystery of that truck, we’ll

solve the mystery of Dr. Carter’s murder.” DeVriess glanced to one side, and Chloe emerged from the crowd. “We have some additional information in these briefing packets, including technical details of the video analysis and a broadcast-quality DVD that shows the surveillance footage and then highlights irrefutable differences between Dr. Brockton’s truck and the mystery truck.” He nodded at Chloe, and she began handing out glossy black folders which I noticed were imprinted with the name of Burt’s firm in raised gold lettering. They were the Bentley version of folders, I thought with a wry smile.

Burt wasn’t quite finished. “We call on the court to dismiss all charges,” he said in a voice worthy of the pulpit. “We call on the district attorney to stop using Dr. Brockton as a scapegoat. And we call on the Knoxville Police Department to find this mystery truck, and the real killer, and bring him to justice for this terrible crime.” With that ringing pronouncement, he grabbed my elbow and practically dragged me back to his office.

The event was simplistically scripted, it was cynically staged, and it was brilliantly effective. During the five-thirty newscast, which I watched in the living room of my own house, I flipped back and forth among all the Knoxville stations, and caught the phrases “mystery truck,” “mystery man,” and “mystery killer” more times than I could count.

We hadn’t won yet-not by a long shot-but DeVriess was right: it was time to start acting like an innocent man, and he had just made that possible for me.

CHAPTER 41

IT WAS TEN O’CLOCK when my cellphone rang. I checked to see who was calling, and was puzzled to see a 423 area code. Chattanooga. “Hello,” I said warily.

“Dr. Bill? Hey, I see you on TV this evening.”

“Well, hello, Miss Georgia. I didn’t know I made the Chattanooga news, too.”

“Naw, baby, I see you on the Knoxville news. I be right here in the same town as you. My cellphone just think it’s still in Chattanooga. How you doin’, Dr. Bill?”

“How am I? Well, let’s see,” I said. “The woman I was falling in love with has been killed, I’ve been charged with murder, I’ve been barred from the university, and my grandkids scream when they see me now. On the bright side, my sleazy defense lawyer is the lead story on all the local TV stations to night, and a video expert can prove it wasn’t my truck that drove into the Body Farm the night Jess’s body was put there. So I suppose things could be worse.”

“We can’t bring Miss Jessamine back, Dr. Bill, but we gon’ clear up all this other mess. You wait and see.”

I wasn’t sure what part Miss Georgia saw herself playing in setting the record straight, but I appreciated her faith. “I hope you’re right, Georgia,” I said. “How about you?”