seemed clean and perfect. Crystal chandeliers sparkled overhead, varnished cherry wood molded gleaming marble floors, expensive paintings and tapestries covered freshly-painted walls. Even the people seemed unreal, all scrubbed and expensively dressed and utterly efficient. Charlie had told me that Mitchell, Skaggs & Ward was one of the law firms that had told her they just couldn’t have the daughter of a convicted drug dealer on their roster.
We checked in with one of the receptionists and were accompanied to a conference room that offered a panoramic view of Buffalo Mountain to the south. As we walked into the room, Charlie spotted a large, glass bowl filled with small candy bars: Snickers, Milky Way, Baby Ruth and Butterfinger. She walked over, fished two Butterfingers out of the bowl and sat down. She offered one to Roscoe, who shook his head. She wolfed one down and just as she was opening the second candy bar, the door opened and two men walked in, both wearing tailored, navy-blue suits, starched, white shirts and maroon ties.
“Must be the uniform of the day,” I heard Charlie mumble. I stifled a chuckle, because I was wearing the same damned thing they were wearing.
“Beg your pardon?” The older man was Nathaniel Mitchell. He was in his early sixties, tanned and fit, with a head of thick, meticulously-groomed, silver hair, a lantern chin, strong jaw, and lovely, ivory-colored teeth that were perfectly aligned. Mitchell was a mouthpiece for the rich and powerful in Northeast Tennessee. I’d met him at bar association meetings back when I used to attend and was well aware of his reputation as a shark. He always drove a brand new, silver Jaguar and carried himself with an arrogance that surrounded him like aerosol spray.
“I was just admiring your suit,” Charlie said.
The other man was Mitchell’s client, Zane Barnes, short and thin, in his early fifties with salt-and-pepper hair that had receded to the crown of his head. His face was pale and drawn, his nose ridged, his mouth small and tight. Zane Barnes was Roscoe’s son and his only living relative.
We went through the introductions while Nathaniel Mitchell and Zane took their seats at the table. Once everyone was settled in, I slid a copy of Dr. Holmes’s report across the table to Mitchell along with a document I planned to file in court asking the judge to dismiss the case. Mitchell slid a pair of reading glasses onto his nose and scanned the documents.
“My, my, you’ve been busy,” he said.
“Just wanted to give you a heads up,” I said. “It appears you may have been misled by your client. You have no case.”
Mitchell removed the glasses and smiled.
“All this tells me is that we’re going to have a swearing match between experts,” he said, “and my expert is as well-qualified as they come.”
“His examination was a fraud,” I said. “Once the judge hears the circumstances, I don’t think he’ll look too kindly on Dr. Heinz.”
“I’m aware of your reputation in the criminal courts, Mr. Dillard, but I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you in civil court. I bring that up because I’m sure, considering your many years of experience, that you understand how important relationships can be. You’ve spent a career building relationships with judges and attorneys and clerks in the criminal courts, and I’ve done the same in the civil courts.”
“Are you trying to tell me that you have the judge in your pocket?”
“I said no such thing, and I resent the implication. Although I will say that Judge Beckett and I go way, way back. He was a member of our law firm for ten years before he took the bench and we’ve remained very close over the years.”
“Good for you,” I said. “Maybe I should ask him to recuse himself since the two of you are such good buddies. Might interfere with his ability to remain impartial.”
“I’ve been practicing in his court for fifteen years and there has never been even a
We checked in with one of the receptionists and were accompanied to a conference room that offered a panoramic view of Buffalo Mountain to the south. As we walked into the room, Charlie spotted a large, glass bowl filled with small candy bars: Snickers, Milky Way, Baby Ruth and Butterfinger. She walked over, fished two Butterfingers out of the bowl and sat down. She offered one to Roscoe, who shook his head. She wolfed one down and just as she was opening the second candy bar, the door opened and two men walked in, both wearing tailored, navy-blue suits, starched, white shirts and maroon ties.
“Must be the uniform of the day,” I heard Charlie mumble. I stifled a chuckle, because I was wearing the same damned thing they were wearing.
“Beg your pardon?” The older man was Nathaniel Mitchell. He was in his early sixties, tanned and fit, with a head of thick, meticulously-groomed, silver hair, a lantern chin, strong jaw, and lovely, ivory-colored teeth that were perfectly aligned. Mitchell was a mouthpiece for the rich and powerful in Northeast Tennessee. I’d met him at bar association meetings back when I used to attend and was well aware of his reputation as a shark. He always drove a brand new, silver Jaguar and carried himself with an arrogance that surrounded him like aerosol spray.
“I was just admiring your suit,” Charlie said.
The other man was Mitchell’s client, Zane Barnes, short and thin, in his early fifties with salt-and-pepper hair that had receded to the crown of his head. His face was pale and drawn, his nose ridged, his mouth small and tight. Zane Barnes was Roscoe’s son and his only living relative.
We went through the introductions while Nathaniel Mitchell and Zane took their seats at the table. Once everyone was settled in, I slid a copy of Dr. Holmes’s report across the table to Mitchell along with a document I planned to file in court asking the judge to dismiss the case. Mitchell slid a pair of reading glasses onto his nose and scanned the documents.
“My, my, you’ve been busy,” he said.
“Just wanted to give you a heads up,” I said. “It appears you may have been misled by your client. You have no case.”
Mitchell removed the glasses and smiled.
“All this tells me is that we’re going to have a swearing match between experts,” he said, “and my expert is as well-qualified as they come.”
“His examination was a fraud,” I said. “Once the judge hears the circumstances, I don’t think he’ll look too kindly on Dr. Heinz.”
“I’m aware of your reputation in the criminal courts, Mr. Dillard, but I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you in civil court. I bring that up because I’m sure, considering your many years of experience, that you understand how important relationships can be. You’ve spent a career building relationships with judges and attorneys and clerks in the criminal courts, and I’ve done the same in the civil courts.”
“Are you trying to tell me that you have the judge in your pocket?”
“I said no such thing, and I resent the implication. Although I will say that Judge Beckett and I go way, way back. He was a member of our law firm for ten years before he took the bench and we’ve remained very close over the years.”
“Good for you,” I said. “Maybe I should ask him to recuse himself since the two of you are such good buddies. Might interfere with his ability to remain impartial.”
“I’ve been practicing in his court for fifteen years and there has never been even a
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