Cold Case in Cherokee Crossing. Rita Herron
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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 had instructed to do to ward off panic attacks.
That had been years ago, although occasionally old fears swept over her when she least expected it. The least little thing could trigger a reaction.
A sudden dimming of lights. A noise. The sound of someone breathing too hard. The smell of smoke or...body sweat.
And cologne, the one Mulligan wore. The musty smell hadn’t mixed well with the rancid odor of his beer breath.
“Avery?”
The Texas Ranger’s voice startled her, jerking her back to reality. “Yes.”
“Do you want me to pick you up, or do you want me to meet you somewhere?”
Her first reaction was to meet him. She didn’t like to be in enclosed spaces with men. But Jaxon Ward was a law officer, and he was trying to help her.
He’d think she was strange, rude, maybe paranoid or unstable if she balked at riding in the car with him.
“I’m almost to my house if you want to meet me there.”
“Fine. I’m at the county courthouse. It’ll probably be a while before I leave. I’ll pick you up in an hour.”
“That works.” She needed that hour to pull herself together. Maybe do some yoga to relax and focus her energy on her well-being.
On the fact that she had survived the Mulligan abuse and family years ago, and she was an adult now. Joleen Mulligan couldn’t hurt her.
She wouldn’t let her.
* * *
BY THE TIME Roberta returned with the files, it was already getting dark outside.
“I had to dig deep,” Roberta said. “But you have to sign in to have access, and that took a while. The guard in charge asked a half dozen questions. Said you were the second person in two weeks to ask for a copy of the trial transcripts and copy of the police investigation report.”
“Did he mention who else made the request?”
“That lawyer, Ellis. Said she was gonna talk to Hank Tierney, too.”
“Thanks, Roberta,” Jaxon said. “You take care.”
Roberta caught him by the arm before he could leave. “You do right by them, Mr. Jaxon, you hear me? They were just kids when all that went down.”
She was obviously sympathetic to Avery and her brother.
“I will,” he said, although he couldn’t make any promises to her, either. When Landers found out what he was up to, he might pull him from the case.
Or fire his butt.
Tension knotted his shoulders as he carried the file through the building and outside to his SUV. The sky had turned a dismal gloomy gray while he was inside, the sound of thunder rumbling.
Texas temperatures could drop quickly, and the chill of the night was setting in.
He checked his phone for Avery’s address as he climbed into his SUV, his pulse quickening when he realized she lived only a few miles from the government-funded project housing where Joleen Mulligan had spent the past few years.
As he expected, traffic was thin. The storm clouds gathered and rolled over the horizon, making it look bleak for the night. He maneuvered through the small town, around the square, then turned down Birch Drive, a street lined with birch trees.
The houses were small, rustic and quaint, but even with winter, the yards looked well-kept. A few had toys indicating small children, a Western theme evident in the iron mailboxes that all sported horses on the top of the barn-shaped boxes.
Avery’s house was the last one on the right, with flower boxes and a windmill in the front yard. He couldn’t see the back, but it was fenced in, which surprised him since the land didn’t