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

“That guy?” Cal asked, pointing at the man in the back.

The young man didn’t turn around.

“If you wanna place an ad, I can take the information for you right now. Otherwise, I’m afraid Mr. Arant doesn’t have much time for chit chat.”

“He doesn’t look busy,” Cal said as he watched the cleaning lady stop her vacuum cleaner and begin to wrap up the cord.

The young man stood upright and scowled. “Just because we’re not a big city newspaper doesn’t mean we don’t work hard around here and—”

“I’m sorry,” Cal said, holding up his hands in a posture of surrender. “I wasn’t trying to imply that you don’t work hard. I just thought your editor might want to answer some questions for me about the murder of Susannah Sloan.”

“Susannah Sloan?” Mr. Arant asked. He stood up and lumbered toward the front of the office. “Did you say Susannah Sloan?”

“I sure did,” Cal said.

“Tommy, go finish scanning in those pictures I gave you earlier,” Arant said, nudging aside his young employee.

Cal smiled and offered his hand. “Cal Murphy, The Seattle Times, and this is my wife, Kelly.”

Arant shook Cal’s hand and then Kelly’s.

“Larry Arant, editor of this here fish wrapper,” he said as he glanced around the room. “She’s not much, but she’s what keeps Pickett County honest, for the most part.”

Cal nodded. “I understand. We both worked at a small town weekly before.”

“Good. So you know I’m busier than a one-legged man in a butt-kickin’ contest, right?”

“We haven’t forgotten,” Kelly said. “Those were some of our most formative years in journalism.”

Arant chuckled. “I’m glad you made it out. You either have to own the paper or have a vindictive wife who divorces you to marry the judge overseeing family court and threatens to eliminate visitation to your two kids in order to stick around one of these places.”

“Which one are you?” Cal asked.

“Let’s just say I wish I owned the paper and leave it at that.”

“Fair enough.”

“So, what do you want to know about the Susannah Sloan murder case? It was decided a long time ago in court what happened.”

Cal pulled out his notepad containing a few questions he’d jotted down.

“Can we sit down? This might take some time.”

“Why not? I’ve got Tommy doin’ all the dirty work today before we put out this week’s paper.”

Arant motioned for Cal and Kelly to follow him into the interior of the building and gestured for them to sit down around a small round table with four chairs. After he sat down, Arant finger combed his thinning gray hair and loosened his tie.

“So, what’s this all about?” he asked.

“I’m working on a feature story about Isaiah Drake, and I’m trying to get a better picture of what happened with the trial.”

Arant leaned forward, clasping his hands together and resting them on the table. “I hope you don’t think that maggot was innocent, because he was guilty as sin.”

Cal glanced at his notes. “How so?”

“Isaiah Drake was always a problem around here. I won’t even begin to guess how many times Sheriff Sloan let that kid off the hook—and all because the sheriff wanted Drake to play for Auburn.”

“Really?”

Arant nodded imperceptibly. “That’s all Sheriff Sloan ever talks about, unless of course there’s a robbery in town or Mrs. Rollins’ cat gets stuck in a tree for the umpteenth time. It’s Auburn football this and Auburn football that.”

“And Drake was that good?”

Arant laughed. “Good is an understatement. The kid was one of the best talents ever to come out of Georgia. It’s sacrilegious to suggest such things in these parts, but I dare say he was as good as, if not better than, Herschel Walker.”

Kelly gasped, drawing a sharp glance from Arant.

“A woman who knows football? I like that,” he said.

“You don’t want her in your fantasy football league, believe me. I know that from firsthand experience,” Cal quipped.

“Hasn’t this state been waiting for the next Herschel for decades?” Kelly chimed in.

“They’ve been waiting for another national title, too, but I doubt it’s going to happen. It’s why I root for a winner like Alabama.”

“Okay,” Cal said. “Let’s stay focused on Isaiah Drake’s case. I’m sure you’re busy.”

“Well, as I was saying, Sheriff Sloan was always mighty partial to Drake, right up to the day he signed a letter of intent to play at Auburn. After Drake graduated, Sheriff Sloan dropped the act.”

“The act?” Kelly asked.

“Yeah, Sloan didn’t care too much for Drake, mostly because he was secretly dating his daughter.”

“Nobody knew about this?” Cal asked.

“A few people did, but it wasn’t common knowledge—at least among the Pickett rumor mills. I heard that Sloan almost shot Drake one night when he was sneaking into Susannah’s bedroom. Almost blew his ear off with a pistol.”

“I was told that a portion of his right ear was bitten off while he was wrestling pig,” Cal said.

“That makes a far better story than the truth, doesn’t it?” Arant said with a laugh. “We have a way of embellishing our tales down here in the swamp.”

“Like The Marsh Monster?” Kelly asked with a laugh.

Arant cut his eyes toward her and glared. “No, the Marsh Monster is real—and I’ll go to my grave believin’ that.”

“Give us your take on the trial. What were the highlights?” Cal asked, redirecting the conversation back toward the point of their visit.

Arant took another sip of his coffee. “This town was a zoo with all the national media descending on Pickett like flies on stink. You couldn’t go anywhere without getting a camera shoved in your face and some moron from Chicago or New York or L.A. holding a microphone to your lips while they asked you a question. But I guess I can’t blame them since the courtroom wasn’t large enough to accommodate more than a hundred people, and the judge wasn’t about to let it all be overrun with reporters. They still had to get their stories.”

“What was the scene like inside the courtroom?” Cal asked as he scratched