Custody of the State Read online

The idea of staying on a houseboat appealed to Will. He liked being near the water, and it sounded like a tranquil spot, with plenty of privacy and room for him to work on the case.

  After accepting the invitation and thanking Madeline, Will jotted down the spot where she told him the keys would be waiting for him. He hung up, still not knowing what to make of the information about Stanley Kennelworth. But he figured that the local attorney was just one more factor he would have to grapple with in trying to effectively defend Mary Sue, and he left it at that.

  Then he left for dinner. He found a place called Denny’s Log Cabin, apparently a popular eating spot with the locals. It was located on the main highway into town.

  During dinner, he went over the affidavits that had been filed by the prosecution in Mary Sue’s case. They were all troublesome, but the one that bothered him the most was the one alleging that, shortly before the police had obtained a warrant, Mary Sue had taken out a large insurance policy on Joshua’s life.

  She had never told Will anything about having the life insurance policy.

  The importance of that evidence was obvious. While the prosecution was not technically required to prove motive, as a practical matter they would have to do so in order to convince the judge or jury why Mary Sue Fellows, an otherwise loving mother, would poison her son with hydraulic brake fluid. It simply didn’t make any sense unless the mother had a serious emotional problem. There was no evidence of that—thus, the life insurance policy provided the missing component of motive.

  In his early analysis of the case, Will felt that the prosecution would build its case first on motive, secondly on the scientific evidence. Even though the scientific evidence, at least on the surface, appeared to clearly show that Joshua had ingested small amounts of brake fluid—and the toxicology report had also indicated that there was brake fluid on the kitchen counter and on the boy’s cup—there might be other explanations for that.

  Perhaps Mary Sue had been accidentally exposed to brake fluid—particularly living on a farm—and in turn might have accidentally exposed her son to it.

  However, the driving force—the life insurance proof—tended to prove that the exposure was intentional rather than accidental.

  And then there was the additional problem of the burden of proof. On the criminal child-abuse case, the standard was “proof beyond a reasonable doubt.” But now the county was proceeding on the case of the custody of Joshua, based on child abuse as the grounds. That case was civil, and the prosecution could prove its case by a much lower standard.

  All of this boiled down to one thing. Will had to come forth with an aggressive, clear explanation for Mary Sue’s innocence. He could not rely on any presumption of innocence as his defense. He would have to get down to the bedrock truth about Mary Sue’s conduct toward her son and be able to cogently argue that to the court or the jury. That was no small task in a community already sensitized to the horrors of child abuse because of the tragic death of a young child the year before.

  As Will was paying his bill at the counter, he started chatting with the restaurant manager.

  “I’m here from out of town, and I’m trying to get some information about one of your local attorneys—Stanley Kennelworth,” Will said.

  “Sure,” the manager replied, giving Will his change, “I know old Stanley. He’s an okay guy. Does traffic work, I think. He’s in small-claims court quite a bit.” Just then, one of the patrons sitting at the counter spoke up.

  “You see that new sports car that Stanley was driving the other day?”

  The manager smiled and said, “Yeah, that’s a beauty, isn’t it?”

  “That’s no sports car,” said another fellow sitting next to the first one.

  “Well, what would you call it? Brand-new Jaguar. I call that a fancy sports car.”

  “Naw,” the second man replied, “that’s no sports car. Sports cars are cars that are high-performance, ya know—NASCAR, racing potential. You ever see a Jaguar in a NASCAR race?”

  “NASCAR!” the first man said, laughing loudly. “There ain’t ever no sports cars on the NASCAR circuit.”

  “You know what I’m talking about,” the second man said. “What’s the name of that European racetrack where they got them sports cars, foreign built…”

  “You mean Le Mans?” Will said, joining in.

  “Yeah,” the second man said, “that’s what I’m talking about. Racetrack potential. I ain’t ever seen a Jaguar on a racetrack.”

  “Well,” the manager said diplomatically, “whatever. The point is, he’s driving a brand-new Jaguar and it’s a beauty.”

  “What was he driving before?” Will asked.

  “Some old piece-of-junk station wagon,” the first man at the counter said.

  “Yeah,” the manager added, “old Stanley must be doing pretty good for himself. I wouldn’t never have figured him to be making that kind of money.”

  “Interesting,” Will said, scooping up his money.

  He tucked the file under his arm, thanked the manager, and headed out to his car, unable to help thinking I’d take my ’57 Corvette over a new Jaguar any day. Will had the lingering feeling that Stanley Kennelworth was important to Mary Sue’s case—and not just because of the car he was driving.

  14

  JASON BELL PURDY’S spacious personal office took up most of the fourth floor of the historic Purdy building in Atlanta. Built by his father, Stanfield Purdy, famous Georgia entrepreneur, twice candidate for governor, and direct descendant of the Purdys who had helped settle that part of the state in the early 1800s, the building was a landmark in the city’s history.

  Purdy was sitting at his massive mahogany desk and playing with a crystal golf ball, which he was tossing from hand to hand.

  Across from the desk, a young, attractive secretary was tapping her pen gently against her steno pad and gazing out the window behind Purdy.

  “Let’s see…” Purdy said, his voice meandering. “Where was I?”

  The secretary looked down and then said, “You were talking about getting the invitations out for the golf tournament and making sure that they did a better job this time of bringing in some congressmen and federal judges, not just the regular group from the statehouse and the governor’s office.”

  “Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. That’s right. Okay, you finish the rest—you know what I want,” Purdy said, now holding the golf ball in his fingers and pretending to throw it like a baseball. “Hey, how about dinner tonight? We can make it a working dinner. We’ve got all of the Eden Lake stuff to go over.”

  The secretary shifted slightly in her chair and closed her steno pad. “I don’t think so, Mr. Purdy.”

  Purdy’s eyes widened, and he cocked his jaw slightly in a forced smile. Placing the golf ball on its wooden stand on his desk, he straightened up a little in his chair.

  “What’s with the ‘Mr. Purdy’ stuff? Since when?”

  The secretary leaned forward a little and said, “Since this,” and she raised her left hand to display a diamond ring. And then she added, “Since I’ve been engaged—that’s when.”

  “Well,” Purdy said, “I mean, that’s no big deal. We can still be friends.”

  “That’s what you said the last time,” the secretary replied. “I’m sorry, Mr. Purdy, but I don’t feel comfortable mixing business with your personal life.”

  Purdy squinted a little at his secretary and clicked his upper and lower teeth together ever so slightly. After a moment he continued.

  “That’s fine. You know, Beth, I would never want to do anything to make you uncomfortable.”

  The secretary smiled politely, rose from her chair, and left the office, closing the door behind her.

  Purdy rocked back and forth in his executive chair for a few minutes, gazing out the window. Then he touched the instant-message button on his video screen.

  The face of a female employee in the payroll department appeared on the screen.

  “Hey,” Purdy said.

>   “How can I help you, Mr. Purdy?”

  “Would you do me a favor?” Purdy asked. “Check Beth’s personnel file. I’m sure we’ve got some warning slips in there for her being late to work, don’t we?”

  “I doubt it, Mr. Purdy,” the woman answered. “Beth is always very prompt. She has an excellent work record.”

  “Oh, I’m sure that’s not right. I’m sure we’ll see at least three or four late slips and some other warnings. Please check her file to make sure that it’s up-to-date, will you please?”

  The woman on the video screen paused for a minute, looking down. Then her eyes returned to Purdy.

  “I understand. I will get right on it, Mr. Purdy.”

  Picking up his private line, Purdy rapidly punched in a telephone number. “Hey, this is Jason. What did you find out?”

  “Just the usual stuff, but nothing like you’re looking for.”

  “Have you checked all the folks who have access to his box?”

  “Yeah,” the other voice said. “I don’t think anyone took any of the papers out.”

  “I think that just about does it.”

  “I’d say so,” the other voice said. “He was pretty predictable. Kept all of his stuff in the same places, same routines every day. No mysteries, no surprises with a guy like that.”

  “Yeah,” Purdy said. “Typical bank president, may he rest in peace.”

  The other voice chuckled, and Purdy hung up the phone.

  Purdy flipped open his Palm Pilot and accessed his monthly calendar. On the calendar date three days hence, he tapped in the message: Beth, bye-bye.

  He flipped the cover closed. Then he fished in the bowl of hard candy on his desk, ripped the plastic off a piece and popped it into his mouth.

  “Giving up cigarettes is hard,” Purdy muttered into the air. “But then—I’m doing it for myself. I deserve a long, healthy life.” And he smiled at that thought.

  15

  I’M SORRY,” THE FBI AGENT at the other end indicated, “but there is nothing we can do immediately. As I explained to you, we’ll have to forward your request to the U.S. Attorney’s office. The decision will be made there, and I’m sure he’ll go through the usual evaluation.”

  “Can you get this expedited for me?” Otis Tracher asked.

  “Doubt it,” the special agent replied. “There are no federal charges outstanding, no federal warrants, and as far as I can see, no probable cause to believe that a federal crime has been committed. As far as I can see this is purely a state matter. But as I said, it’s for the U.S. Attorney to decide. He’ll give me a directive as to whether we should assist in trying to apprehend this…what did you say her name was?”

  “Mary Sue Fellows,” Tracher said.

  “Right. Whether we’ll give any assistance in locating and apprehending Mrs. Fellows. As soon as I hear something, I’ll let you know.”

  The detective hung up the phone and turned back to his memo book, where he jotted down some notes.

  Tracher was no brilliant investigator, but he was known for his persistence and stubborn dedication to the cases he handled. He was also capable of detaching his emotions from his work. He left questions of right and wrong, justice, and equity to Harry Putnam, his prosecutors, and the judges. His job was to locate, apprehend, and bring in the culprit—and to gather sufficient evidence to convict.

  Tracher had not been discouraged by his lack of results so far. When he had contacted the college in Santa Fe where Andrew White Arrow taught, he was informed that Andrew was on sabbatical for several months. The administration did not know where he was going to be spending that time, other than at an educational conference in Minneapolis. Contacting the conference center, Tracher was told that Andrew had indeed attended, but they did not know how he had traveled there, or what means of transportation he was going to take afterward, or his destination after the conference ended.

  The college administration in New Mexico did have on file an “emergency contact” person listed by Andrew when he’d first starting working at the college some years before—a Susan Lee Tacoma. Tracher located her and learned that she was a former girlfriend of Andrew’s. But they had broken off their relationship about two years earlier when Andrew had gotten “too religious,” as Susan put it. However, she did recall Andrew mentioning that some of his family was located in either South or North Dakota.

  That information was the best lead the detective had received thus far. When he checked with Mary Sue’s relatives, as well as the extended family of Joe Fellows, a few of them had indicated they’d had a phone call or two from Mary Sue. But none of them had caller ID on their telephones. None of them indicated they knew where she was located or where she was calling from.

  Armed with the information from Susan Tacoma, the detective telephoned the U.S. Department of the Interior, Bureau of Indian Affairs. A woman answered, and Tracher recited the initial details.

  “What law enforcement agency did you say you were calling from?” the agent asked.

  “Sheriff’s Department, Juda County, State of Georgia. This is Otis Tracher, Chief Investigator for Crimes Against Juveniles,” the detective replied.

  “And who is it…what tribe…what were you looking for?”

  “The man’s name is Andrew White Arrow, Sioux nation, Lakota tribe.”

  “Detective, do you have any idea how many square miles of Indian reservations there are in North and South Dakota? And how many Lakota you’ve got located there? Look,” the intake officer continued, “from what you’ve told me, this isn’t even a federal issue. No federal charges. You haven’t alleged a violation of law by any Indian on a reservation—”

  “Well,” Tracher replied, “this Andrew White Arrow is under suspicion of possibly aiding and abetting the flight of a felon out of the State of Georgia.”

  “Suspicion? Look, I’m no expert in criminal investigation, but we deal with law enforcement agencies pretty often. You’re going to have to have something more than that for me to put this on the top rack. I will send your request to locate this Andrew White Arrow over to my supervisor. That’s all I can promise.”

  Tracher thanked her and hung up the phone. He stood up, stretching his tall frame, and looked at the papers, files, and notes that were scattered all over his desk. Scratching his head and yawning, he glanced over at the bulletin board that hung in his office. On it were pinned the pictures of missing juveniles and juvenile offenders he’d recently been investigating.

  Tracher snatched up a photograph lying on the mess on his desk and lumbered over to the bulletin board. He thumbtacked it dead center in the middle of all of the other pictures. The photo showed Mary Sue Fellows cradling Joshua in her arms, smiling. The detective had located it in the Fellows house the day he had arrested Joe.

  He stared at the picture. Something from his background—perhaps a phrase from catechism, or a homily delivered by Father Godfrey at St. Stephen the Martyr Church—touched his memory.

  Tracher continued staring.

  “Madonna and child…” he muttered. Was that a famous painting…or was it sculpture? It was a strange thought, and Tracher dismissed it. Looking at his watch, he saw he had just enough time to grab some lunch. After that he would go on-line to do some research about Indian reservations in North and South Dakota.

  His job was to apprehend Mary Sue Fellows and her young son, Joshua. He was going to do that. He was going to do it without hesitation. He would do it because it was his job, and his job was to enforce the law.

  16

  WILL WAS DRIVING DOWN A LONG, wooded country lane on his way to the houseboat where he planned on staying while he worked on the Mary Sue Fellows case. A small sign at the side of the road—“Public Landing 1 Mile”—gave him hope that he was driving in the right direction.

  Two issues in the case had been haunting his mind. One was immediate—and it was threatening to Will’s professional career. The other was a more transcendent issue, involving Mary Sue’s guilt or innocen
ce—and his need to get some answers to her seemingly unanswerable dilemma.

  The first issue lay right at Will’s doorstep. In two days, the deadline imposed by Judge Mason would expire. The judge had ordered Will to produce the whereabouts of Mary Sue or to arrange her turnover to the authorities, and pursuant to that, he had noticed a status hearing on the fifth day to ensure that Will was before the court to explain his response in person. Every step that Judge Mason had taken on that issue confirmed Will’s suspicion that any disobedience to his order would result in a finding of contempt of court. The sanctions for contempt could run the gamut—from a fine to imprisonment. For Will, the stakes couldn’t be higher.

  Todd had reported in promptly with the results of his legal research, but they were less than definitive. The obligation of a lawyer to disclose the location of a client who had fled a jurisdiction in anticipation of an arrest warrant or an adverse order from a court was murky at best. On the one hand, an attorney was bound to protect the confidences of a client—and that would include confidential communications by a client that informed the attorney of his whereabouts. On the other hand, an attorney had an obligation to disclose ongoing or anticipated criminal conduct that a client mentioned to the lawyer.

  If Will chose wrongly by withholding the information, it might not only jeopardize Mary Sue’s case—it could result in his disbarment, and a contempt order sending him to jail.

  On the other hand, if Will were to discover Mary Sue’s whereabouts and then disclose them to the court against her desires, that also would be an ethical violation. And if Mary Sue was then located and Joshua was wrenched from her care, he could well be in danger if Mary Sue was correct in concluding that he was suffering from an undiagnosed and mysterious medical problem. Indeed, his condition had appeared to be deteriorating under the care of the family physician. Now, ironically, according to Mary Sue in her last telephone contact, Joshua now seemed to be improving somewhat.

  The second issue was equally troubling, but for different reasons. As Will lined up the pieces of evidence from the prosecution that proved Mary Sue’s complicity in poisoning her own son, they were chillingly consistent.