case he was likely to lose.
His usual tactic was to bluster around and wave his arms, then claim the defendant’s attorney had requested a delay. Since all the judges were Republican, the paperwork always looked good, and sometimes they all went months without actually having to work.
I could have taken on the court system in an editorial, but no one really cared if the courts did their job. After a few continuances, victims often got tired of wasting their time and asked the D.A. to drop the charges, or else the court happily accepted a plea agreement that often doubled as a future civil settlement.
For the Moretz incident, the D.A. even posed with Hardison for Kavanaugh’s photo, which ran in the state news section. The D.A. was quoted that he was behind Hardison all the way and was prepared to prosecute as soon as the sheriff was confident of his evidence.
Kavanaugh played the angle just as Moretz and I had planned: a reporter had moved to a small town and, finding success and attention after a few sensational crime stories, had become a little unhinged and decided to up the ante. If Moretz had been satisfied with that first murder, he likely would have gotten away with it for quite a while, Kavanaugh’s article implied. But hungry for attention, he’d gone for the second.
Even then, Kavanaugh wrote, investigators had nothing really linking Moretz to the two crimes besides coincidental timing. Then came the third victim, and practically everyone in town was under suspicion. The coverage implied that Sycamore Shade was populated by a bunch of inbred hillbillies who were only barely literate, and Moretz would have never gained a readership without a few screaming headlines.
Kavanaugh’s article didn’t mention me, though she’d asked me a few questions for deep background. Apparently Hardison had played it close to the vest and hadn’t told her who had tipped the deputies.
Technically, detectives would have needed a search warrant, but I reasoned that Moretz’s desk was the newspaper’s property and therefore I had a right to prowl in his top drawer. I’d been looking for scanner codes, I’d told Hardison, when I’d discovered the pair of clippers lurking in a tray full of bent paper clips.
Hardison didn’t make the arrest, though. He was content at that point to imply Moretz was under a watchful eye. Moretz had been advised not to leave the county until the investigation was complete. Such vague instructions meant nothing, but it made a good wrap for Kavanaugh’s story.
Moretz was back on duty the next day. I’d been forced to run the wire story Kavanaugh had written, but I also hashed out a little column on “Innocent until proven guilty.”
No one really put stock in that phrase. Injustice was such a part of the collective experience that I could just as easily have entitled it “Guilty until high-priced lawyers bribe the judge.”
“What do you want me to write, Chief?” Moretz asked. His desk had been emptied by the cops, but he had a fresh composition book and a few pens in his pocket.
“We’d better keep you low profile for a while,” I said. “There’s a chili cook-off to benefit the garden club.”
Moretz grinned. “No chance of any arsenic sliding in with the cumin and garlic powder? With some fingernail clippers spread among the cooking utensils?”
“A reporter can always dream. But I guarantee you it will be the most widely read puff piece of the year. You’re a celebrity now.”
“Yeah, a legit person of interest.”
Of course, Moretz’s previous stories on the murders had become hot property, so much so that the publisher took the unprecedented step of firing the presses back up and printing second runs of each of the issues. Since collectors were ordering multiple copies on the off chance that Moretz got the needle, demand was through the roof.
Or at least out the back door. Nelson, the head press operator, had been caught loading up a stack in the bed of his
His usual tactic was to bluster around and wave his arms, then claim the defendant’s attorney had requested a delay. Since all the judges were Republican, the paperwork always looked good, and sometimes they all went months without actually having to work.
I could have taken on the court system in an editorial, but no one really cared if the courts did their job. After a few continuances, victims often got tired of wasting their time and asked the D.A. to drop the charges, or else the court happily accepted a plea agreement that often doubled as a future civil settlement.
For the Moretz incident, the D.A. even posed with Hardison for Kavanaugh’s photo, which ran in the state news section. The D.A. was quoted that he was behind Hardison all the way and was prepared to prosecute as soon as the sheriff was confident of his evidence.
Kavanaugh played the angle just as Moretz and I had planned: a reporter had moved to a small town and, finding success and attention after a few sensational crime stories, had become a little unhinged and decided to up the ante. If Moretz had been satisfied with that first murder, he likely would have gotten away with it for quite a while, Kavanaugh’s article implied. But hungry for attention, he’d gone for the second.
Even then, Kavanaugh wrote, investigators had nothing really linking Moretz to the two crimes besides coincidental timing. Then came the third victim, and practically everyone in town was under suspicion. The coverage implied that Sycamore Shade was populated by a bunch of inbred hillbillies who were only barely literate, and Moretz would have never gained a readership without a few screaming headlines.
Kavanaugh’s article didn’t mention me, though she’d asked me a few questions for deep background. Apparently Hardison had played it close to the vest and hadn’t told her who had tipped the deputies.
Technically, detectives would have needed a search warrant, but I reasoned that Moretz’s desk was the newspaper’s property and therefore I had a right to prowl in his top drawer. I’d been looking for scanner codes, I’d told Hardison, when I’d discovered the pair of clippers lurking in a tray full of bent paper clips.
Hardison didn’t make the arrest, though. He was content at that point to imply Moretz was under a watchful eye. Moretz had been advised not to leave the county until the investigation was complete. Such vague instructions meant nothing, but it made a good wrap for Kavanaugh’s story.
Moretz was back on duty the next day. I’d been forced to run the wire story Kavanaugh had written, but I also hashed out a little column on “Innocent until proven guilty.”
No one really put stock in that phrase. Injustice was such a part of the collective experience that I could just as easily have entitled it “Guilty until high-priced lawyers bribe the judge.”
“What do you want me to write, Chief?” Moretz asked. His desk had been emptied by the cops, but he had a fresh composition book and a few pens in his pocket.
“We’d better keep you low profile for a while,” I said. “There’s a chili cook-off to benefit the garden club.”
Moretz grinned. “No chance of any arsenic sliding in with the cumin and garlic powder? With some fingernail clippers spread among the cooking utensils?”
“A reporter can always dream. But I guarantee you it will be the most widely read puff piece of the year. You’re a celebrity now.”
“Yeah, a legit person of interest.”
Of course, Moretz’s previous stories on the murders had become hot property, so much so that the publisher took the unprecedented step of firing the presses back up and printing second runs of each of the issues. Since collectors were ordering multiple copies on the off chance that Moretz got the needle, demand was through the roof.
Or at least out the back door. Nelson, the head press operator, had been caught loading up a stack in the bed of his
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