She had a rap sheet.
Two DUIs and an arrest for possession of narcotics. She’d also been dropped as a foster parent after Mulligan’s death, so she’d resorted to government assistance and project housing.
Jaxon phoned a friend with social services—Casey Chambers, a young woman in her twenties whose parents had been killed when she was twelve, throwing her into the system. She’d seen enough of it to want to help other kids get out like she had.
“Hey, Jaxon, what can I do for you?”
“I need some background information on a case that came through the social service agency twenty years ago.”
“What’s this about?”
“The Hank Tierney murder conviction.”
“You’re looking in to that?” Casey made a soft sound in her throat. “I’ve seen the protestors, and I heard some young lawyer was asking questions, too. Is that true?”
“Yeah. I was at the prison and some questions have come up regarding the conviction. I need contact information for the social worker who placed Hank and his sister, Avery, in the Mulligans’ home. Her first name was Delia.”
“That was a long time ago and the agency has a pretty high turnover rate. Burnout and all.”
“I understand. But can you find it?”
“I’ll see what I can do and get back with you.”
“Thanks, Casey.”
“Jaxon, what do you think? I read about the murder and the guy’s confession. He admitted to stabbing the man. But something doesn’t ring right to me.”
Avery’s pain-filled eyes taunted him. “I know. That’s why I want to talk to the social worker.”
A hesitation. “Jax?”
“Don’t repeat that to anyone,” he said. “Just get me that information.”
“You got it.”
The waitress brought his check, and he paid the bill and left her a nice tip, then drove toward the courthouse. The land seemed even more deserted with winter taking its toll. Everything looked desolate, deserted, dry, almost like a ghost town.
Cherokee Crossing looked like a throwback in a Western movie with a bar/saloon in the heart of town, and a tack-and-boot store beside it. Life moved slower here. Residents told stories about the Cherokee Indians being the dominant tribe in the area, and the canyon that had literally and figuratively divided the Native Americans and early settlers.
The town had been built to bridge that gap.
Jaxon parked in front of the county courthouse, noting the parking lot was nearly empty. It was four-thirty; people were heading home for the day. He parked next to a pickup, then strode up the sidewalk to the courthouse steps. He identified himself, then went through security and headed to the clerk’s office.
He greeted the secretary, reminding himself to use his charm. Death penalty cases were always controversial and stirred emotional reactions on all sides.
Alienating people would not get him what he wanted. Avery’s tormented expression haunted him. He hoped to hell he wasn’t being a sucker and being lured into believing an act.
Maybe the social worker could shed some light on the situation. He also needed to review the trial transcripts, study the way the lawyers handled the case, make sure nothing was overlooked or evidence hadn’t gotten lost, misplaced or intentionally omitted.
Roberta, the clerk in charge of records, was always friendly and knew more about the goings-on in the courthouse than anyone else. She’d also worked with the court system for thirty years.
Jaxon had only been a year older than Hank Tierney when Hank was arrested. That was probably one reason he remembered the case so well.
It had been all over the news. Jaxon’s uncle, the only living relative he’d had at the time, was disabled and had watched the story with him, then had a come-to-Jesus talk with Jaxon. He’d told him he was going to end up like Hank Tierney one day if he didn’t get his act together.
Unable to raise him, that uncle had shipped Jaxon to a military school, where he’d learned to be a man. He’d hated it at first.
But looking back, he now saw that that school had saved him from going down the wrong path.
“Hi, Roberta, I need some help. Can you get me a copy of the transcripts of Hank Tierney’s trial twenty years ago?”
Roberta’s eyebrows climbed. “The Tierney man who’s about to die?”
“Yes. My director wants me to review the matter because of some young lawyer looking to get the conviction overturned.”
Roberta sighed. “I always felt sorry for that boy and girl. Folks said the boy was scary, that he stabbed that man a bunch of times, but if you ask me, something else was going on in that house. Something nobody wanted to talk about.”
“You remember the trial?” Jaxon asked.
“Of course.” She reached for a set of keys in her drawer. “Never forget how terrified that poor child looked when the reporters pounced on her. That young’un was scared to death. Something bad happened to her, I tell you. Children don’t look like that unless they’ve seen real-life monsters.”
True.
She ambled around the side of the desk. “Those files are old, Sergeant. They’ll be archived downstairs.”
“That’s fine. Can you find them and make a copy for me?”
“Sure. But it might take a few minutes.”
“No problem. I’ll be glad to wait.”
She maneuvered her bulk toward the door and walked down the hall. Jaxon phoned Avery. She answered on the third ring. “Hello.”
“Avery, this is Sergeant Jaxon Ward. I found an address for Joleen Mulligan. I’m going to visit her tonight.”
Her breathing rattled in the silence that fell between them. “I’ll call you after I talk to her,” he said.
“No,” Avery said in a shaky voice. “I want to go with you.”
Jaxon gritted his teeth. “Are you sure you’re up for that?”
“No,” she said softly. “But I’m the reason my brother is in this mess. It’s my place to get him out.”
A wealth of guilt underscored her words.
Jaxon found himself wanting to erase that guilt. But that might not be possible. Chances were slim that they could get her brother’s execution postponed, and even slimmer that they could prove him innocent and free him.
* * *
AVERY LOWERED HER head between her legs and inhaled slow, even breaths just as her therapist
