True Intent (Nate Shepherd, #2)

by Michael Stagg

“PETA?” “I was once, years ago. They lost me when they started throwing paint on people.”

“New case?” “Doesn't look like it.” I realized that if Liselle was going to be in town three weeks from now, I needed to take some preemptive steps. “She's a biologist from down south that’s studying Sarah's work. They're dealing with some of the same stuff down there that Sarah was up here.” “Emerald ash borer?” my dad said. I nodded. “They're never going to stop it,” he said. “Apparently, they're trying.”

I paused, then I bit the bullet. “I think she's coming back in a few weeks to investigate some more sites.” All three Shepherd women turned. “Really?” said my mom. “Interesting,” said Kate. “You don't say,” said Izzy. Justin picked that moment to bail me out. He was dropping back in coverage when a wobbly pass came over the middle. He jumped up, intercepted it, and ran down the sidelines. We all cheered and yelled as he scampered into the end zone for a touchdown. By the time they made the two-point conversion, I was able to turn the conversation to the high school's upcoming game with East Jackson. I owed my nephew one.

“They need to be taken down but it’s so expensive the county can’t afford it.” He shook his head. “I climbed those trees when I was young. It’s a shame.” “It’s a crime.” I looked; Liselle had joined our conversation. She practically spat the words. My dad's mouth barely twitched, but his eyes twinkled. “Son, I don't believe you've introduced me to your friend.” “Liselle Vila, this is my dad, Dave Shepherd.” Liselle’s anger evaporated as she held out her hand. “I’m sorry, Mr. Shepherd. All that destruction gets the better of me sometimes.” “Don't apologize. I feel the same way when I’m on my boat looking over the lake at what’s left of the ash grove.” He gestured at the hospital waiting room. “Even more so now.” Liselle shook her head. “The same people who say it’s too expensive to clear out and replant are the same ones who can’t be bothered to inspect or quarantine ships when they dock to make sure they aren’t carrying a non-native species that destroys our whole ecosystem. One person cuts a corner and millions of our trees are destroyed. It’s as if…” Liselle stopped, smiled, and ducked her head. “There I go again.”

I’m embarrassed to say I lost track of Liselle in that first month. Not lost track exactly—I knew she was in her townhouse and she visited my office a few times to help explain some of the materials in the prosecution’s discovery file, and I knew that her immediate needs, like getting to the grocery store, were being met. No, I mean I lost track of the upheaval in her life—of being placed under house arrest in a strange town, of being kept from a job you love, of being utterly without friends or family for support. You’d think with my track record…well, you’d just think that I would have been more attuned to her distress. But I wasn’t. Not at first.

There’s an old legal saying that you can explain anything once, but if it happens twice, you’re fucked. All right, I just made that up. That doesn’t make it any less true though.

I texted Liselle that I needed to see her because even if someone is electronically confined to her house, it’s still rude to just show up.

I didn’t have to read much to see that Michigan never stood a chance. In the early 2000s, people wondered why the ash trees southeast of Detroit were sickening. A lot of time was spent thinking it was a disease until a guy named Dave Roberts found larvae in a tree and sent it to a series of entomologists that led from Deb McCullough to Richard Wescott to Eduard Jendek, who finally figured out that an obscure bug from across the ocean was to blame. On July 9, 2002, they identified the emerald ash borer and quarantined the wood in five Michigan counties soon after. But it was too late. The borer had already spread and there was no way to stop it. Little was known at the time about the emerald ash borer except that it was a burrowing pest that was indigenous to China. They eventually figured out that the emerald ash borers had hitched a ride to the port of Detroit in cargo ships and from there, disembarked to attack the woods in the surrounding Downriver area. In China, the ash trees had built up a resistance to the borers but the ash trees of Michigan? Well, those were fresh, defenseless meat. The speed with which the borer spread was staggering. It's estimated that they first hit Detroit in the late 1990s but no one’s sure since they weren’t discovered until 2002. By the time my Sarah got involved in fighting the borer, it was 2007 and far, far too late. They tried everything: clearcutting, outlawing transportation of wood, you name it. But by 2014, almost every ash tree in...

I turned to the last page in the folder, which was again the check-box drop-off form. I read it, read it again, and pulled out of the drive-thru line into a parking space. I put the Jeep in park and stared at the page. The man who had dropped Mac off was listed as Jeremy Raines. For a fleeting moment I hoped that it was a coincidence but then I saw that his address was an apartment in Kansas City, Kansas. Jeremy Raines, protester at Ribbon Falls, stealer of surveying equipment. And member of the Forest Initiative. The same organization Liselle was part of.

I continued the visits with James and Justin and Joe. Mark and Izzy were more than happy to let me and bowling night became a couple’s game night which became co-ed softball night as summer approached. The boys and I continued The Narnia Chronicles and, when we finally got to The Last Battle and the Pevensie children had gone farther up and farther in, I thought we might be done, but I still wanted to come over and they still wanted me to read so we started on The Belgariad by David Eddings. We eventually made it to where Garion had met the half-dryad Ce’Nedra when I told the boys that I had to stop and put the book aside for a few weeks, and met their protests with promises that yes, yes, we would start up again soon. It was time to go to trial.

Victoria brought her whole team. She had an associate—Carrie Landon, I think—and a man and a woman who looked to be in their mid-forties. I wasn’t sure what their role was but they’d been passing notes to Victoria the whole time she was questioning jurors. The man’s head had been buried in a laptop while the woman had been making furious notes on a tablet with a stylus. The judge had three fabric chairs in front of his desk and a sagging couch on one wall. Victoria, Carrie, and I took chairs while Dan stood off to one side. The man and the woman hesitated, then took a step toward the couch. “I believe I directed counsel to come back,” Judge French said. Victoria gestured. “Your Honor, this is David Jenson and Elizabeth Korzwyski from—” “Are they attorneys representing the State?” “No, Your Honor. They’re jury consultants. I assumed we were going to talk about the jury selection process.” “We are. You’re free to consult with them when you’re done here.”

In case you're wondering, this many people on the prosecution side of a case was not usual, not in Carrefour anyway. Having the chief prosecutor and an associate in court, another associate working back at the office, and two jury consultants was far beyond the usual budget for a case in a town like ours. It was almost as if a billionaire had died.

I watched Bre and Andrew as they sat there, seemingly deciding that what the judge said didn't apply to them. Victoria approached the rail, leaned over, and whispered to them. “What do you mean we have to leave?” said Bre clear enough for me, and the jury, to hear. Victoria whispered. Bre turned her head and stared daggers at me. “But I want to hear what the coroner has to say!” Victoria whispered again. I wasn't watching Bre Phillips anymore. I was watching the jury. I hoped this tantrum lasted a little longer.

We finished gathering our things and headed back to the office. On the way out, I took some unprofessional pleasure in seeing Bre Phillips in the hallway stomp her foot—literally stomp her foot—because she wasn’t going to testify that day.

Ms. Phillips, since your father passed away, you’ve learned about your father’s will and estate, haven’t you?” “It’s a trust. And yes.” “A trust. Thank you. Ms. Vila didn't receive anything from your father under this trust, did she?” “I would think not. They'd only known each other six weeks.” “Exactly. Ms. Vila had only known your father for six weeks. It’s fair to say that you knew your father far better than Ms. Vila, right?” “Of course.” “And you don’t know the name of his medication.” She stared at me. “Thank you, Ms. Phillips. No further questions.”

“And you knew that your father had high blood pressure because he complained about taking the medicine all the time, true?” “Yes.” “And yet you kept him on a golf course for over four hours in the eighty-eight-degree sun drinking beer, didn’t you?” Andrew ground his teeth a little bit before he said, “I didn’t make him do anything.” “No, you didn’t, did you. Because he made up his own mind to drink beer and golf, didn’t he?” “Yes.” “So when you gave your father beer and kept him out in the eighty-eight-degree sun for over four hours, you weren’t trying to kill him, were you?” Victoria stood. “Objection, Your Honor. That's a ridiculous, argumentative question that's completely disrespectful of the witness’s loss.” I shook my head. “Your Honor, I agree that it’s completely disrespectful to ask someone who cared about Richard Phillips if they were trying to kill him when they were clearly just drinking and having a good time but here we are.”

“Detective Pearson, besides being the Chief Detective for Serious Crimes here in Carrefour, you also supervise the Carrefour Police Recreation League, don’t you?” “I do.” Pearson straightened and looked at the jury. “I believe that by intervening early with schoolchildren, we can avoid drug overdoses and drug-related crimes later.”

“The problem is that Richard shouldn’t have been drinking red wine or eating aged meats and cheeses if he was taking St. John's wort. Liselle knew Richard was taking St. John's wort. Therefore, she knew that he shouldn't have had the wine and the high tyramine foods, regardless of the blood pressure medicine.” He glanced at Liselle and said, “Sorry.” Liselle shook her head. “Don't be.” “Danny's right,” I said. “Why did you let Richard eat and drink those things?” Liselle shrugged. “I was too.” “What do you mean?” “I wasn't just making the tea for Richard. We were both drinking it.” “Every time?” Liselle nodded. “Just about. Certainly every time we were together.” I cursed myself. That was a big angle and I’d totally missed it. “So you didn't think anything of it because you were having the same things?” Liselle nodded. “You know how those warnings are. I'd never had any trouble with it so I never thought twice about it.”

Once the jury had left, Judge French said, “Counsel, please see me in my office.” Victoria and I looked at each other, shook our heads to indicate neither of us knew what was up, and went back. Judge French sat himself heavily in his chair and said, “What are we doing here, Ms. Lance?” Victoria looked startled. “What do you mean?” “I mean what are we doing in the second week of a first-degree murder trial on this case?” “Your Honor, we think it's clear that—” “If you're about to say you think it's clear that a crime has been committed, you are mistaken.”

We stood and walked out of the judge's office. I stood aside and let Victoria go through the door first. She stopped as soon as we were out of the judge’s hearing. “You know it can’t be a coincidence,” she said. “Of course it is,” I said. “And you know you're stretching because you have no motive and no murder weapon.” “And you know I'm not because she did it on purpose.” “You’ve been talking to billionaires too much, Vicki. All that money clouds their perspective.”

The jury returned a verdict of not guilty. It had taken them thirty-seven minutes.

There's an old rule in cross-examination that you never ask a witness a question that you don't know the answer to. There's a similar but slightly different rule for clients—don't ask a question that you don't want to know the answer to.

The man came up and shook my hand, pumping it with smiling exuberance. “You did a great job, man. Great work on the trial.” “Thanks.” “Nate Shepherd,” Liselle said. “This is Jeremy Raines. An old friend of mine.” I kept my face straight. “Nice to meet you.”