“Did that include all police called as witnesses that day?”
“Yes.”
“I’d like to see the dockets for those trials.”
“The clerks can help you,” he said, and marched away.
Ruby took the printed dockets to the café on the first floor of the courthouse, ordered a coffee and a bagel, and started reading.
There had been six child custody hearings and eight divorces in the Pickleweed Courthouse on that day. Five minor felonies, all for identity theft. A rash of misdemeanors, mostly for disturbing the peace. One case of felony animal neglect.
And one aggravated murder, which was Mitchell’s trial.
The dockets listed all witnesses called, including the police. Ruby knew that previous defense teams had dug deep into the officers who had interrogated Mitchell—there was brutality going back for years. The defense’s findings had not moved an inch on this case. Everyone knew that the officers had beaten the confession out of Mitchell. That was a no-brainer. In a case like this, it wasn’t enough to find evidence of police brutality, because a lot of the public, especially in a place like this, thought, So what if they beat a guilty man?Or So what if they beat a Black man, or a Mexican—we got enough of those. Next.
What Ruby had to find was a reason for the brutality, or the missing evidence, and that reason only mattered if it led to the real killer. The dirty little secret of false convictions was how they allowed the guilty to walk free. Ruby knew who her enemies were, and they were not thepolice, who suffered no consequences for convicting an innocent man. They were the guilty still walking free.
Twelve police officers had been called that day.
She looked them up on her laptop. All were local law enforcement, like the cops who had beaten Mitchell. They had been promoted into other stations. One beamed at her from his photo, his medals shining.
But one of the officers called to court that day was different: an animal control officer, testifying in the animal neglect case.
She ran his name.
A somber face greeted her: a Black man, too.
Officer Alonzo Pettibone.
Perfect, she thought.
That night, she drove to Atlanta. She found Terrence in a noisy bar, a glass of dark whiskey in his hand. He was surrounded by others from the capital unit, all celebrating a rare victory. They had just won a trial for a man facing death if convicted, and that man would walk out of jail in a few days and become real again, in the Georgia mist.
She crowded in next to Terrence, accepted the offer of a drink. The gin and tonic tasted like juniper berries.
“Got good news?” he yelled in her ear. The music was thumping above them, and some members of his unit were leaving the bar to dance on the tiny dance floor.
“Not really!” she yelled back.
“I hired you as a last resort. I know you can’t work miracles!” he shouted. She could feel the warmth of his breath on her cheek. She looked up into his eyes and thought, huh. He turned to watch the dancers. She was getting used to the noise now and seemed to hear better.
Terrence finished his drink and set the glass on the bar, and shewatched as he joined his friends and colleagues, shaking off all the heartbreak and stress in the heat and beauty of the moment. They looked so beautiful there, dancing. All of them—all sizes, all colors. Their bodies pulsed with the music, and she felt both sad and relieved. It was a joy to watch them, and feel the same music they felt, coming up through her toes.
In a bit, she joined them.
She awoke in the cloud-soft comfort of white quilts, and for a moment wondered where she was. She was used to strange ceilings, and this one was painted white. Then she turned her head, and saw with relief that she was alone.
The night came back to her. Terrence had invited her back to his place for a few hours’ sleep before the next day began. And thankfully, that was all she had done.
“You awake?”
His polite voice came from outside her door. She was in his guest room.
“Yes,” she said.
After a quick shower, she joined Terrence in his kitchen. Atlanta was oddly quiet so early in the morning. “I don’t hear cicadas here,” she said, toweling her hair.
“Not enough old trees,” he said, pouring coffee into a travel mug. “Or any trees.” He capped the mug.
