The Color of Death: A Novel

Chapter 1

Why don’t we just kill him?

Not yet, Knox. Not yet.

Footsteps moved away from him, and a door closed.

Frank Hastings slowly regained consciousness. His hands, legs, and chest were tightly bound to a high-back wooden chair, like a prisoner strapped in for execution. The gag in his mouth made it hard to breathe.

The last thing he remembered was turning off a paved road and heading toward a cabin near the river. A potential client with a significant personal injury claim wanted to meet, and he, a lawyer with significant financial issues, was more than willing to make the drive and pitch his services.

He knocked on the door, it swung open, and everything went black.

Frank blinked and shook his head like a patient emerging from a coma. The room came into focus. In front of him sat a small, round table with a notepad and pen, an old TV, and a video player. The place seemed familiar—like many of the cabins where people come to fish the North Pacolet River.

A door opened behind him, followed by the sound of two sets of footsteps entering the room. Judging by the trembling floor beneath his feet, one of them was massive. They stopped directly behind Frank’s chair.

Frank attempted to speak, but the gag made it impossible. He tried to twist around and see who they were, but the restraints and the high-back chair prevented that.

He’s awake, JD, Knox said.

Let’s hear what he has to say.

Knox wrenched the gag out from between Frank’s teeth.

If you want money . . .

This isn’t about money, JD cut him off. It’s about seeking justice for Larry Stafford and our mom.

Frank remembered the case well. No one could have won that case.

That’s not true, Frank. Someone did win—it just wasn’t you. But now it’s time for you to stop asking questions and start answering them. Your trial is about to begin. I even brought my own .38-caliber gavel.

The cold metal of a gun pressed against the skin on Frank’s neck.

JD mockingly imitated a bailiff: "The first item on the docket is a malpractice case—The People v. Frank Hastings. Mr. Hastings, you have the right to remain silent. Anything you say . . . well we can skip the rest. It won’t matter."

We don’t need to do this. I want to find a way to make it right.

Oh, we’re going to make it right, Frank. Exhibit one is a video. Let’s watch.

The TV on the table flashed to life.

Frank attempted to turn his head to the right to plead with JD, only to find himself staring down the dark barrel of the revolver.

Watch the TV, Frank.

Frank gulped and stared at the screen.

"This was one of the first cases featured on Trial TV. It didn’t receive the same attention as OJ or Scott Peterson did, but they show it in law schools now. Not your part, of course. Who wants to watch a fat, bald lawyer sweating his way through a trial? They want to see the prosecutor, Colm Truesdale. What did the paper call him?"

The Artist, Knox said.

Frank glanced down and to the left. He could see only the man’s boots, which were twice the size of his own shoes.

That’s right, ‘The Artist,’ JD continued. But that’s a lie as well. Artists create. Colm destroys.

On the TV, Assistant District Attorney Colm Truesdale rose from behind the prosecutor’s table. Tall and broad-shouldered, the fit young prosecutor exuded Southern charm wrapped in a disarming smile. He gazed at the jury box, not saying a word but already working his magic.

See how he’s connecting with each jury member, making each one believe they’re the most important person in the room. Those dumb jurors—the ones you handpicked—are playing right along.

I’ll start by simply saying thank you—Colm broke the silence, and a few jurors nodded politely—for your willingness to do such a difficult, challenging, even excruciating job, but one without which we would have no justice system. During these past two weeks, you had to hear and see things you won’t . . . you can’t forget. If there had been any way to spare you from having to bear witness to this depravity, this perversion, we would have. But I would respectfully remind you, as hard as it was to watch and listen, imagine having to live through it. Imagine the pain, the fear, the isolation this child endured.

What hypocrisy! JD screamed. Truesdale used that child to garner sympathy while you sat there and said nothing. You did nothing.

Frank sobbed and lowered his gaze.

Pay attention! JD shouted.

Knox’s huge hand seized Frank’s head and jerked it back, forcing Frank to stare at the TV.

Colm continued. Now, you get to give that child a chance to be heard, listened to, and believed. This is where the power changes. This is where you give the powerless a voice. The defendant is no longer in control. You are. Colm paused and met the eyes of each juror in turn.

Listen to the silence, Frank. His silence was more powerful than anything you said.

I know it was hard to hear the things done to that child and not be moved. The pictures made us turn away in disbelief and disgust. But we had to show you what was done.

Do you see what’s happening? Colm’s practically climbed into the jury box with them by saying ‘us.’ Look at juror seven! She’s in love with him. She can’t take her eyes off him. Why didn’t you move for a mistrial? Why didn’t you object or try to switch her out for an alternate juror?

Tears rolled down Frank’s cheeks.

Stop crying, Frank. You should have shed those crocodile tears during the real trial.

My work here is finished, Colm said. I feel powerless to adequately convey what she endured—it was nothing short of murder, the murder of a child’s innocence. His voice rose to a crescendo at the words murder and innocence.

Here it comes! The nail in the coffin, Frank.

"In just a moment, when the defense attorney is through, you will retire to the jury room, and then the judge will send all the exhibits back to you. One of those exhibits will be State’s Exhibit Number Forty-Two. A simple ink pen. You may be wondering why we, the prosecution, introduced this simple ink pen from her bedroom into evidence. Amid the teddy bears, the stuffed animals, and all the pictures of Cinderella and Snow White, was this little pen. It’s the pen she used to write in her journal, asking, ‘Why? Why is he doing this, God? Jesus, please make him stop.’ I want you to use this same pen to write your verdict. As you each sign your name to the verdict form, honor her courage, honor her innocence, and give her the power she didn’t have . . . use this same pen. Give her what she begged for—peace, mercy, protection; but most of all, justice. Give her justice by writing your name under the word guilty."

JD slowly clapped. Masterful. Now it’s your turn. Let’s see how you did.

Frank shook his head and closed his eyes.

No, Frank. You’re going to watch. JD shoved the barrel of the gun under Frank’s chin and pushed up. Let’s see what our mother’s life savings got her.

On the screen, dressed in a suit straining at the seams, Frank Hastings mopped his sweaty forehead as he strode uncomfortably back and forth in front of the jury box.

What are you doing? JD asked. "You look like a lazy gym teacher lecturing the kids in detention. Look at the jurors’ faces. Number four has his arms crossed. Number nine is leaning back in her chair. And seven? That green-eyed devil loves Colm but can’t stand you. She’d been taking notes all trial, but she put her pen away. Not just down, Frank, away—cap on and laid off to the side."

On the TV, Frank began his closing argument. "Members of the jury, let me explain a simple term—circumstantial. While you did hear a number of so-called facts, you have to ask yourself one question: Do they add up?"

A gunshot rang out as a round struck the TV.

Frank shook uncontrollably and his ears stung.

Smoke poured out of the large hole in the screen.

Apparently, they added up pretty quickly. How long was the jury out? Less than thirty minutes. That’s not even long enough for a smoke break.

I’ll give you the fees back! I’ll do an appeal. I’ll petition the court that I was unprepared. I’ll do anything you want!

You’re worse at defending your case than when you defended Larry. But if you’re serious about helping, there is something you can do. Left- or right-handed?

Right-handed, Frank replied, terrified.

JD cut the rope that bound Frank’s right hand to the chair. You’re going to write down everything you just said. You’re going to write that you didn’t adequately prepare for the trial, that you and other attorneys conspired to defraud clients of their money . . .

Frank chewed his lip. If he didn’t do it, they’d kill him. He still hadn’t seen their faces, so they may let him go. Frank’s hand shook as he hurriedly transcribed what JD had said.

Okay, it’s done now.

Not yet. Write ‘I’m sorry’ and sign it.

Frank wrote the words and signed his name.

The giant Knox grabbed Frank’s arm and tied it back to the chair.

Open your right hand, JD said.

I did everything you said. Let me go, Frank sobbed.

Enormous fingers tightened on Frank’s neck, and Knox clutched Frank’s right wrist.

Frank opened his fingers, and to his amazement, with a gloved hand, JD placed the revolver in his grasp.

Pull the trigger, JD said.

With Knox pinning his wrist to the arm of the chair, Frank could only point the gun straight ahead at the wall.

Frank whimpered and pulled the trigger.

The gun fired. Smoke burned Frank’s nose, and his ears rang.

JD reached out and removed the gun from Frank’s grasp.

Please don’t do this. Imagine the trouble . . .

Why would we get in trouble because a crooked lawyer decided to blow his brains out?

No, please.

If it makes you feel any better, you’ll soon have company. Your law partner, the judge, even Colm Truesdale, will be joining you. Any last words?

Frank Hastings sobbed one last time.

Chapter 2

I pull my ringing phone from my pocket but choose not to answer it. Instead, I wait and listen to the voicemail.

Hey, Colm. It’s Mae. I wanted to check up on you and see how you’re doing. Please give me a call when you can. Love you.

Like the good therapist she is, she knows it’s time to talk. But while I love her, I’m not in the mood to talk—even to my sister-in-law. Not now, and especially not here.

Located on the edge of Spartanburg, on a clear day you can see the Appalachian Mountains straining above the horizon. Quite a view for a cemetery. Today, I know something beautiful is out there, but I can’t see it. It’s a gray, cold, rainy November afternoon. Aside from the weather, it’s a serene place. Right beside an old church surrounded by hardwoods born before any of the people lying here. I’m sitting in my car debating whether to get out or not. Maybe the rain will let up. In the meantime, I note the cruelty of nature—especially in autumn. It used to be my favorite time of the year. Beautiful days with crisp mornings and chilly evenings as bookends. Everything conspires to remind you of life. The temperature, the colors, the holidays, how can you not be hopeful in autumn? But it’s a façade. Autumn is death masquerading as beauty.

The rain lets up enough to convince me to at least try. I make my way along a curvy path weaving between the graves as a gust of wind catches my umbrella. We are so careful to honor the dead by not walking over graves. We don’t mind walking over people when they are alive, but death changes all of that, I guess. There’s another car parked in the distance. Must be the groundskeeper. Who else would be here on such a bleak day?

I don’t want to be here, but I need to tell her I’ve made my decision, and it’s final. My resolve hardens as my fingers tighten around the two bouquets of orchids in my hands.

At the end of the high row of bright green boxwoods, I freeze. It wasn’t the groundskeeper’s car I saw—it was Bethany Barnett’s. The elderly woman standing at the end of the path appears even smaller beneath the large umbrella she carries. Her thin back is hunched, and she grips her jacket tightly together with her free hand to ward off the chill. Facing away from me, she bends over and brushes some leaves off the granite tombstone before her.

It’s been five years since the trial. I’m a little ashamed I have not kept in better contact with her, but there’s always another file, another family, another loss. I try to slip back toward my car, but her shoulders shake and the sound, it’s the sound that draws you in. The sound of unabated grief. For me, it was a weak murder case assigned to me early in my career. To her, it’s the only case that matters . . . and the sound of grief pulls me toward her. Time doesn’t change anything. Closure is a myth created by those who haven’t suffered loss.

So, I march forward.

Oh. She steps back. I didn’t know anyone was here. Mrs. Barnett’s umbrella rocks back and forth as she dabs at her eyes. Colm? You’re so thin I hardly recognized you.

I nod and smile.

She looks at the grave. I think we’re the only ones who remember them.

I nod because there are no words worth saying. Presence is usually enough. I glance down at the solitary vase at the base of the tombstone and hand her one of the bouquets of flowers.

Fresh tears rim her eyes.

I take a deep breath as we stand in silence for a moment.

I slept last night, Mrs. Barnett whispers. Do you remember? Do you remember how bad I was?

She reaches out a hand twisted by time and toil, takes mine, and squeezes it.

Yes, ma’am, I remember you were having a little trouble sleeping.

Little trouble? She sighs and strokes the back of my hand with her thumb. I was dying. You saved me.

Overwhelmed by emotion, I want to pull my hand away but don’t. She’s probably right. When I first met her, she looked like she hadn’t slept in weeks, because she hadn’t. It was over a month since her husband and grandson went missing. We knew they were gone, but you don’t step on people’s hope—not until you have to.

I don’t think their bodies would have ever been found, and I know it never would have gone to trial if it hadn’t been for you, Colm. Mrs. Barnett squeezes my hand tighter. I would be wondering what happened for the rest of my life.

Mrs. Barnett—

It’s the truth . . . Her lip trembles, and her voice trails off.

I angle my umbrella to the side and drape my arm over her shoulders. Rain dampens my hair and drips down the lapels of my suit. Even if I hadn’t met Mrs. Barnett, I would have pressed forward with the case. Henry Barnett was a seventy-five-year-old man still working his farm. He took his young grandson with him to sell some tools to someone they met online. They never came home.

I’ve felt what she’s gone through. Death is constant, but it is not equal. There’s a difference between death strolling up to the front door of your life, knocking gently, and saying, Take your time, say your goodbyes, and safeguard your soul, and death kicking in the front door of your life—with no warning, no time to prepare, no time to make amends with those you love, no time to whisper a prayer of forgiveness or say your goodbyes. Like a thief in the night.

Thank you, Mrs. Barnett says, breaking my train of thought as she stares up at me. I pray every night God will continue to use you mightily.

I swallow my cynicism long enough to say, Your courage inspired me to work harder. Would you like me to walk you back to your car, Mrs. Barnett?

No. I think I’ll stay a few more minutes.

Making my way back down the path, the rain let up a bit. When I reach the fork in the path, I stop. They trimmed back the bushes, and I can see the tombstones in the distance. They look small from here.

My wounds haven’t healed. I can’t do this today. I should have known. This is as close as I can come. I place the bouquet of orchids on the nearest tombstone and walk back to my car. I rationalize it’s better this way, but it’s not rationalizing so much as running away.

I look out through the rain-covered windshield. If it weren’t for me, they wouldn’t be here. No flowers or apologies can absolve me of my guilt. They’re here because of me.

Chapter 3

Pick up your phone! Judge Martin Weber shouted at his dashboard as he sped down a winding stretch of back roads bordered by barren fields on either side. Well past the peak of foliage season in the high country of South Carolina, the towering oak trees cast dappled sunlight onto the asphalt.

Thank you for calling Cutz for All, Rachel’s voicemail answered. Sorry I missed your call.

Martin angrily jabbed the disconnect button and stomped on the gas. His Audi’s V6 engine thrummed as he passed an old, rusted Ford F-150 truck. The farmer behind the wheel flipped him off.

Judge Weber returned the gesture, but with his car’s tinted windows, what was the point? He exhaled loudly and eased his foot off the gas, trying to calm down. Why was Rachel ghosting him? Maybe she was busy. She did have a kid, after all, and was dealing with that jackass of an ex-husband.

Martin ran his fingers through his peppered gray hair. He stared at his plugs in the rearview mirror. He was self-conscious and thought it looked like planted corn, but Rachel was a hairdresser and swore she could barely tell.

Martin jammed on the brakes and pulled into the gravel parking lot. He almost drove past it—the cutz for all sign was hung on the side of the house, so you didn’t notice it until you were right on top of it.

The parking lot was empty, but he pulled in sideways, taking two spaces. Rachel had converted this simple mobile home she once shared with her ex into a hair salon, although she still lived here, too. Her bedroom was in the back, but it had been a while since he’d gotten either the haircut or the post-haircut rendezvous.

The bell above the door chimed as he slipped inside. The salon’s interior was surprisingly spacious. The walls were lined with mirrors, reflecting the bright fluorescent lighting. A new salon chair, still wrapped in plastic, sat beside a worn brown leather one.

The door to her small office on the left was partially open. One sec! Rachel called out. Be right with you.

Take your time. Martin shut the front door and stood there.

Rachel’s high heels clicked off the linoleum.

Martin rubbed the back of his neck. How could he tell a woman was upset just by the way she walked?

Rachel marched into the room, stopped with her hands on her slender hips, and stared at him like a gunslinger about to draw down. Her gorgeous long blond hair draped across her shoulder and flowed down her apron and over her breasts until it reached her thin waist. Twenty-six, she looked like a runway model.

We’re closed, Martin. Rachel’s red lips frowned. Get out.

Martin worked up his best good ol’ boy grin and turned his palms up like a beggar asking for a handout. Talk to me, darling. What is it you think I did?

Are you serious? Where do you want me to start?

If it’s about the implants, I was only kidding. You’re perfect . . .

No, Martin, it’s not about what you think I should or should not do to make your sex life more enjoyable. You lied to me, and it’s over.

Frankly, Martin didn’t remember much about Friday, their last night together, but he wouldn’t let that stop him from winning the argument. Before he became a judge, Martin was one of the best trial lawyers in the area. I can explain. It’s a marriage in name only.

You lied about it.

That’s why I am here, baby. To apologize.

You don’t even remember what you did.

No, no, you have it all wrong.

You made a fool out of yourself because you were drunk and acting like an idiot.

Okay, I drank too much. I will . . .

It wasn’t just drinking, Martin. Rachel’s manicured eyebrows knit together. When we were at the club and you came back downstairs, you were a different person, and not in a good way. I told you I don’t do drugs, and I certainly don’t date married men who do.

I don’t do drugs, Rachel, and I object to your accusation.

This isn’t a courtroom, Martin. You aren’t the judge, Rachel spit back. Who do you want me to believe, you or my own eyes?

Give me another chance—

I went through all this crap with my ex. Do you even remember the bouncers carrying you out? I had to drive you home, and then you started whining about what your wife was going to think. That’s when I realized you’re not divorced.

It’s just not official yet.

Have you filed?

Well, no but . . .

So, it’s not final because it hasn’t even begun, Counselor!

It’s Judge! And that’s something you would be wise to remember.

Yes, mainly because you brag about it all the time.

I’m sorry I acted that way. I’m sober now. And I really care about you, Rachel. I do.

You care so much that you had me walk three and a half miles back to the club to get my car?

Why didn’t you call a car service?

Because you thought your wife would figure out I drove you home. You didn’t want a record of me calling an Uber.

I am so sorry. Let me make it up to you. Let me take you somewhere nice. How does a week in Paris sound?

Rachel shook her head and slowly walked forward. Look, I liked you when we first met. But you’re married. You’re inconsiderate. You’re condescending. And I don’t need that in my life again. I have lived it once, and I will not live it again.

One more chance. Let’s take this trip—just you and me for seven days in ‘The City of Light.’ I already booked the flights. We’ll be back by Thanksgiving. You fly out on the seventh and—

Rachel crossed her arms. Why would you book different departure dates for us?

I’m leaving first to ensure everything’s ready for your arrival.

What a load of crap. You’re worried your wife will drive you to the airport and find out about us. Martin, I’m done with this. It’s over. Go home to your wife. Go to France. I don’t care. Just leave here and don’t come back.

The muscles in Martin’s jaw tightened. You might want to rethink that. Remember, you need me, sweetheart.

Rachel scoffed.

I have friends in the family court.

I never asked you for anything, Martin.

Now, who’s lying? Martin