Quentin McKee was the kind of lawyer who chased ambulances, but only if he was driving the car that hit them. He was Sheriff Maddox's brother-in-law, a man with a smile like a cracked windshield, and a suit that cost more than Beverly made in a year. He sat in the interrogation room of the county jail, staring at Royce Dalton. "Rick, you need to listen to me," McKee hissed, tapping a gold pen on the metal table.
"The feds have the video.
They have the audio. They have the text messages where Maddox told you to shake the trees for cash, but we can still win this." Dalton looked like a ghost. Prison orange didn't suit his complexion.
"They have me dead to rights, Quentin. That guy, Washington, he's a spook, a ghost." "He's a man," McKee spat, "and every man has a skeleton in his closet.
We're going to dig up Isaiah Washington's past. We're going to paint him as an unstable veteran with a history of insubordination. We'll say you felt threatened. We'll say his compliance was actually a pre-assault indicator.
We'll make the jury scared of him, not you." McKee's strategy was brutal and classic.
Destroy the victim's character. He leaked stories to the local press. Mysterious stranger agitates local law enforcement. Was the veteran really a threat?
The town was divided.
The good old boy network rallied. Pickup trucks started sporting Free Maddox bumper stickers. And then the intimidation started. It began weeks after the incident.
Beverly found her tires slashed in the diner parking lot.
A note was tucked under her windshield wiper. "Snitches get stitches. Keep your mouth shut at the trial." She called Zeke.
Zeke was staying at a motel two towns over preparing for the deposition. He arrived at the diner in minutes.
He looked at the slashed tires, then at the trembling waitress. "I can't do this, Zeke," Beverly sobbed. "I have two kids. If they come for me."
Zeke placed a hand on her shoulder. It was heavy, reassuring.
"They aren't coming for you, Beverly. They're lashing out because they're drowning. It's the death throes of a predator that knows it's been caught." "But my car."
"I'll handle the car," Zeke said. "And I'll handle the security."
That night Quentin McKee was sitting in his home office pouring a scotch, congratulating himself on the fear he was spreading. His phone rang. Unknown number. "McKee," he answered.
"Mr. McKee," a digitally altered voice spoke.
"This is a courtesy call." "Who is this?" McKee demanded sitting up straighter. "You have a safe in your office behind the painting of the hunting dogs.
The combination is 441289." McKee froze. The blood drained from his face. "How?
Who are you?" "Inside that safe," the voice continued, "is a ledger. A handwritten ledger detailing the kickbacks you've received from the sheriff's drug seizures over the last 10 years. You also have a burner phone taped to the underside of your desk drawer."
McKee scrambled to his desk, feeling underneath. His fingers brushed plastic. He ripped the phone off the tape, staring at it in horror.
"We have the audio from that room, Quentin," the voice said. "We heard you tell Dalton to lie on the stand. That's subornation of perjury. That's a felony.