Dead to Rights by Jack Patterson (fiction book recommendations .txt) 📕

long before I have enough solid evidence to help exonerate Isaiah Drake. Not even a recent law school graduate could whiff on this case.”

“Better hurry,” Frost said. “I just received a phone call from one of the judges handling Drake’s case, informing me that Drake was just denied a retrial and for now remains locked up.”

“What? Are you kidding me?” Cal said. “How could they possibly look at all that evidence and continue to hold him? I don’t know if I’ve ever run across a greater miscarriage of justice.”

“I’ve seen several greater injustices just this week,” Frost said. “But that’s why I do what I do.”

“Since you’re the expert, do you still think we can get him a retrial?”

“Maybe, but it’s up to you and what other kind of facts you can get me.”

Cal hung up, sighed, and looked at Kelly.

She stared knowingly at her husband.

“Looks like our trip to The Pirate’s Den isn’t going to be celebratory after all, is it?” she asked.

Cal shook his head. “Not in the least bit.”

While they were walking toward the car, Cal’s phone rang again, the screen displaying an unknown number.

“This is Cal,” he said as he answered.

“Cal Murphy?” a man on the other end of the line asked.

“Yes. Who’s this?”

“My name is Tripp Sloan, Susannah’s brother. I heard you were workin’ on a story about Isaiah Drake and my sister’s murder. I’m on my way from Savannah to visit some friends in Pickett this weekend and would love to meet with you.”

“How about dinner tonight at The Pirate’s Den, say seven o’clock?” Cal asked.

“Perfect. See you then.”

Cal hung up and looked at Kelly. “There’s still hope for our visit to The Pirate’s Den tonight. Tripp Sloan wants to talk.”

CHAPTER 27

THE PIRATE’S DEN was crowded with customers celebrating the end of the work week. While waiting for a table, Cal and Kelly endured a half hour of modern country pop, songs about girls in blue jeans, boys with trucks, and people everywhere drinking. The gray-bearded man nursing a bottle of beer next to them launched into a tirade about the state of country music.

“Country music sold its soul to the devil years ago,” the man said. “Nashville ain’t put out a listenable song in fifteen years.”

“More ‘an that,” mumbled his drinking companion.

“Probably right. There ain’t no Hank or young Waylon Jennings or Merle Haggard to rescue us from this garbage.”

“Don’t we wish.”

Cal and Kelly nodded in agreement, which was little more than a polite gesture.

The gray-bearded man stared at Cal.

“Who’s your favorite country music singer, buddy?” he said, slapping Cal on the arm.

Cal squinted and looked skyward, all in an effort to give him time to conjure up the name of at least one country musician from yesteryear. He was coming up empty.

“He loves the Charlie Daniels Band,” Kelly said, saving him from sure scorn. “He loves the song about the devil going down to Georgia.”

“Uh huh,” the man said as he nodded. “Y’all ain’t from ‘round here, are ya?”

“What gave us away?” Cal asked with a slight grin.

“Y’all talk funny—both of ya.”

The hostess called out, “Murphy, party of three. Murphy, party of three.”

Cal exhaled, relieved to be saved from further critique about their mode of transportation or dress appearance compared to the majority of The Pirate’s Den clientele. He and Kelly followed the young woman to their table.

“Where’s the other member of your party?” she asked.

“He’s on his way,” Cal said. “Would you mind pointing him in our direction when he gets here?”

“Will do,” she said, winking at Cal before she walked away.

“What do you think this is all about with Tripp Sloan?” Kelly asked.

“Maybe he wants to clear his conscience,” Cal said. “Remember that Drake said he was hanging out with Tripp right here the night of Susannah’s murder.”

“Let’s hope so.”

When the waitress came around, Cal and Kelly both went for stronger drinks, ordering some craft beers from a Savannah brewery. They didn’t have to wait long before Tripp Sloan slid into one of the empty chairs at their table.

“Tripp Sloan,” he said, offering his hand to Cal and then Kelly. “It’s so nice to meet y’all. My dad told me I should talk to you while I was here.”

“Really?” Cal said. “And your father is Sheriff Sloan?”

Tripp nodded. “I see you’ve become fairly acquainted with him. He can be very off-putting at times.”

“And threatening,” Kelly said. “But let’s not quibble over that.”

Tripp nodded knowingly. “Well, I don’t live in Pickett any more and never intend on returning. Draw your own conclusions about that, if you know what I mean.”

Tripp flagged down the waitress, whose jaw dropped when he she recognized him. They talked for a minute before she scampered back to the kitchen to get his drink.

“Bekah and I went to Pickett County High together,” Tripp said. “She was a freshman when I was a senior, but we stayed in touch until I moved away about eight years ago.”

“So, why’d you move?” Cal asked.

“I think I’ve made it abundantly clear why I pulled up my roots and left,” Tripp said. “I also had some job opportunities in Savannah that were far more lucrative than anything I’d ever get in Pickett.”

“Okay, we don’t want to hold you up here,” Cal said as he leaned forward, “but let’s cut to the chase. What can you tell us about the night of your sister’s murder, Isaiah Drake, and anything else related to this case?”

Bekah handed Tripp a beer bottle, which he promptly began to peel the label off of. “Let me preface everything by saying I drank quite heavily that night,” Tripp said. “And the next few nights after, to be honest. Losing Susannah was hard on my whole family. But to answer your question, that night wasn’t all that unusual as I recall.”

“You met Isaiah Drake here?” Cal asked.

Tripp nodded. “I wasn’t the only one with Drake that night. My boy Jordan Hayward was here. Jacob Boone was here, though he was drinking with some other