“You don’t want the truth! You want publicity. You want the world to know how clever you are so you can grow your own business.”
“That’s not true. I want to know for certain that an innocent man didn’t go to jail.”
“Innocent! Have you read Jeb Jones’s history? The man was a drunk and a cheater. He couldn’t hold a job. He was trouble waiting to happen.”
Murmurs washed over the crowd. Some folks laughed. “He’s never denied that he had a troubled past.”
“Oh, well that’s good of him.”
“Trouble doesn’t mean he’s a killer.”
The Channel Five camera caught every word of the argument. Later the reporter would pluck chosen sound bites for the eleven o’clock news. “I want justice, Ms. Miller. DNA testing will prove once and for all if Jeb killed Annie.”
“No test is going to change what I know in my heart! That bastard killed my sister!” More tears welled in her eyes.
Rachel, drawn by the tears, missed the woman’s right hook, which rose up as quick as a viper. The bare-knuckled fist struck hard against her jaw sending pain reverberating through her head. Thoughts scrambled, she staggered, nearly caught herself, but teetered on her heels and dropped to her knees.
The sounds from the crowd grew distant as her head buzzed and popped. She was aware of Colleen calling for the police as she pushed through the crowd.
“Liar!” Margaret shouted. She raised her fist again, poised to strike.
Rachel braced for another hit as she pulled herself up.
Strong arms wrapped around Rachel’s shoulders. “Can you stand?”
Colleen’s perfume wafted. Someone else held a screaming Margaret back.
No. “Yes.” Drawing a breath, she rose to her feet and wobbled. Colleen’s surprising strength steadied her.
You are such a wimp! Her older brother Luke’s voice rattled in her head, irritating her. Luke had treated her like one of the boys. He’d been a real bully when they were kids, but if Luke were here now he’d have come to her defense. “Keep your fists up, Rachel. Shit. How could you let a woman like that hit you?”
Rachel’s head cleared and she planted high-heeled feet, wobbled, and pulled back her shoulders. She balled her fingers into a fist, focusing on Margaret Miller now being held back by a Nashville uniformed officer. The woman’s screaming pounded inside her skull.
“Call an ambulance.” Colleen’s command snapped like a whip, prompting several to fish in their pockets for a cell.
Rachel blinked, worked her jaw. “That’s not necessary.”
“It is,” Colleen said. “You could have a head injury.”
Rachel readied to protest again when she saw Deke Morgan glaring down.
He looked amused. “She clocked you pretty good.”
Rachel righted her twisted skirt and pulled away from Colleen’s protective hold. She stumbled and caught herself.
“You really need to sit,” Colleen protested.
Rachel met Morgan’s smiling eyes. She’d eat dirt before she showed weakness. Margaret’s screaming seared her nerves. “I’m fine.”
Colleen held up two fingers. “How many fingers am I holding up?”
She glared at the manicured fingers. “Three.”
Colleen’s gaze narrowed as she studied Rachel.
“I’m fine,” Rachel said. “Fine.”
Colleen heard the extra emphasis on the last word and took it as a warning to back off.
If Morgan had heard it, he didn’t care. In fact, his smile broadened. “You want to press charges?”
The cameras still rolled but now she wanted the press to go away. She’d meant what she’d said about talking to Margaret in private. She didn’t want a war. “No charges.”
A restrained Margaret shook her head. “You better arrest me! I’ll hit her again given the chance. She is a menace.”
The verbal threat earned the woman a set of handcuffs, which constrained her arms behind her back. She sneered at Rachel and spit. Spittle landed inches short of Rachel’s feet.
Rachel worked her throbbing jaw and prayed it wasn’t broken. “Ms. Miller, this isn’t about disrespecting your sister,” she said. “I want the truth.”
“We have the truth!” Margaret said. “It’s not convenient for you.”
The cops led Margaret toward the squad car. She kicked and screamed of injustice.
“Sure about those charges?” Detective Morgan asked.
“Take her home,” Rachel said above the woman’s shouting.
Morgan nodded and without a word, cut through the crowd toward the marked police car. She’d have followed if not for the reporter who intersected her path. This press conference had gone wrong in more ways than she could count.
Rachel straightened her shoulders and smiled as the older brunette held out a microphone. A floral perfume floated out toward her.
“I’m Susan Martinez with Channel Five. Can I ask you a question, Ms. Wainwright?”
“Of course.” Rachel remembered to smile and resisted the urge to rub her sore jaw. Colleen stepped back but hovered close.
Martinez’s eyes sparked with excitement as if she’d stumbled on an unexpected gem. “You are counsel for Jeb Jones?”
Rachel imagined how Margaret’s punch played on video. “That’s correct.”
“Have you met Margaret Miller before?”
“No, tonight was our first meeting. And let me say I’m sorry she’s upset. It was not my intent to hurt her. My intent is to compel the Nashville Police Department to test the DNA found on the murder weapon.”
“Do you really believe the test results will clear your client?”
Did she really believe? Good question. She had a strong suspicion that her client would be cleared but she didn’t know for sure. As an up-and-coming defense attorney, she’d been given cases from the county. Those clients had not been innocent but that hadn’t stopped her from mounting a defense. Everyone had a right to a fair trial. “He recanted as soon as he’d had a few good hours of sleep. Since then my client has professed his innocence for thirty years. As soon as DNA was available he started asking for it.”
“Do you believe he’s innocent?”
Stick to the talking points. The world doesn’t need to hear your worries. “What’s important is that the DNA is tes
ted and the Nashville Police Department release it to the public.”
Ms. Martinez edged the microphone closer to Rachel and dropped her voice a notch as if it were only the two of them. “Are you worried about Margaret Miller?”
The question didn’t pertain to Jeb, but she’d roll with the punches. “No. She’s upset. She’ll cool off. She more than anyone deserves to know who really killed her sister.”
“And you think the real killer is out there?”
She hesitated and then looked directly into the camera. “Yes, I do believe the killer remains free.”
Deke stood on the street corner watching as the uniforms hauled Margaret Miller away. He’d been curious about the vigil, had made a point to attend, but hadn’t expected much. He had to give Rachel Wainwright credit. She’d scrounged up more people than he thought would care about a thirty-year-old murder case.
When he’d arrived she’d been arranging her note cards as she’d cast disappointed looks at the crowd. She’d kicked off her dog-and-pony show right on time and he’d settled against the concrete wall behind him and watched her try to galvanize a lifeless crowd. Then he’d spotted Margaret pull away from the group. Her body twitched, tight and nervous, as she’d gripped her purse strap in a brawler’s bare-knuckled grip and fixed her gaze on Rachel. He hadn’t recognized the woman but he could spot the body language of a disturbed person. Immediately, he’d made his way through the crowd, listening, as Margaret’s voice grew louder and angrier. He’d been a few feet away when Margaret had decked Rachel.
Rachel. Rachel Wainwright. She’d been calling him several times a day for at least six weeks. He’d taken her first call and told her she’d have her results as soon as he did but that hadn’t satisfied her. She’d called back, leaving a long message arguing that the whole testing process was taking too long. She’d accused him of burying evidence to protect his father.
That comment had pissed him off to the point that he’d considered driving to her office and having it out. But he’d worked undercover too long to let his temper or feelings get the better of him. He’d zipped up his anger and put it aside.