CHAPTER 16

ON THEIR WAY TO PICKETT COUNTY HIGH SCHOOL, Cal and Kelly spent a few minutes reflecting on what they’d learned so far. And Cal figured he was no closer to drawing any conclusions than he was after the day they started interviewing people.

“If we think that Isaiah Drake is innocent, something we need to determine not only for the paper but also for The Innocence Alliance, then we need to have an alternative theory. And right now, I don’t know who that might be or how you could even begin to unravel a case like this. Drake just looks so guilty.”

Kelly perked up. “The problem in this case is you’re thinking like a deductive journalist instead of an inductive one.”

Cal shot her a glance. “Deduction is the only way to definitively prove something.”

“Exactly,” she said, raising her finger. “The key word there is definitively. If you’re going to raise doubt, you don’t have to have lock solid proof. The prosecution didn’t, did they?”

“The jury thought the prosecution’s proof was beyond the reasonable doubt clause.”

“Again, that’s what they thought. All you have to do is find a thread to pull on in order to create reasonable doubt in the minds of your readers—and maybe enough that The Innocence Alliance will take on Drake’s case.”

Cal shook his head. “I’m not sure I can do that, Kelly.”

“Why not? An innocent man may die.”

“Or a murderer may walk free. So far, all I have are my own hunches that Sloan’s team conducted a shoddy investigation. But in the end, their conclusion that Drake was the killer may be right.”

“Honey, where there’s smoke, there’s fire.”

“Yeah, but just because smoke is billowing over your head doesn’t mean you started it.”

Kelly nodded imperceptibly. “You have a point.”

Cal wheeled their car onto Pirate Drive at 2:45 p.m. and found a spot in the Pickett County High parking lot. They checked in at the front office and received an escort to the football field where head football coach, Cecil Faris, was getting ready for spring practice.

“Coach Faris,” Cal said as they approached, “might I have a minute of your time?”

Faris wore a wide smile blemished only by the lump of tobacco wedged between his bottom lip and gum. He looked down to his right and spewed a stream of amber saliva onto the ground.

“What can I do ya for?” Faris asked, offering his hand.

Cal and Kelly both shook his hand.

“Are you two from Atlanta down here to cover the fastest receiver in next year’s recruiting class? Clarence Bailey is the real deal. I saw him run down a rabbit once.”

Cal chuckled. “No, you’ve got us confused with someone else. We’re here from The Seattle Times, and we’re working on a story about Isaiah Drake.”

Faris took his baseball cap off and scratched the top of his head before wiping his face with his hand. He repositioned his hat and stared blankly at the bleachers behind Cal and Kelly.

“I’d rather talk about the Bailey kid. Much better story.”

“Frankly, I would, too, Coach,” Cal said. “But, unfortunately, my assignment revolves around Drake. He’s almost out of appeals, and I’m trying to write a story about how this all happened.”

Faris sighed and crossed his arm. He barked out a few commands to the straggling line of players filtering onto the field. Seemingly ignoring Cal’s request, Faris looked over his shoulder and spoke to his guests.

“Bailey’s already in the clubhouse ready to go,” Faris said with a wry smile. “Probably because he cut his last period class, but who are we kiddin’? He’s gonna play in the NFL one day, and it won’t matter how much world history he knows. Nobody’s gonna care if he knows Bonaparte from Washington when he’s racking up points for everyone’s fantasy league teams and winning games for his coach. He’s gonna be bigger than Calvin Johnson.”

“Johnson was actually smart and talented,” Cal said. “I wrote a piece on his humanitarian efforts and how he used his engineering skills to craft a toilet using native building materials for less than a hundred bucks.”

Faris waved him off. “Either way, all of that is far more interesting than talking about Isaiah Drake’s story. Maybe I can send you back with something else your editor will like.”

“Nice try,” Cal said. “If you don’t want to talk about it, I understand. But I thought you might be a great source since you coached Drake . . . and Jordan Hayward.”

Faris froze and slowly turned his full attention to Cal. “What does Hayward have to do with any of this?”

“That’s what I’m trying to find out,” Cal said.

“We think he might be involved in one way or another,” Kelly said.

Faris laughed. “Nobody on this team wasted more talent than Hayward. The boy couldn’t even write his own name without help until the eighth grade. I can’t see him being smart enough to pull off an elaborate plot like that by himself.”

“So, you’re suggesting if he did it, he may have had help.”

Faris shrugged. “Maybe, but don’t go putting words in my mouth.” He spit another stream of tobacco juice into the grass.

“I think that’d be rather difficult around here,” Kelly said. “You don’t have the Pickett County accent.”

“Why?” Faris asked, breaking into a soft laugh. “You can understand me?”

Kelly nodded. “I’ve lived in Georgia before and have struggled to hear certain accents, but I eventually get it. Yours, however, doesn’t match everyone else’s.”

“I moved down here from Pennsylvania more than twenty years ago and never left.”

Cal gestured toward the can of snuff Faris held in one hand while pinching out some moist tobacco leaves.

“The accent may have escaped you, but the tradition of coaching and chewing didn’t.”

Faris winked at Cal. “That’s a universal practice for football coaches.” Faris clapped his hands together. “Now, if you folks don’t have any more questions, I’ve got a practice to run.”

“Okay, before we go, I actually do have a few more quick questions for you,” Cal said.

“Make it quick.”

“Can you tell me about Hayward and Drake’s relationship when they were in school? Friends? Enemies? Just teammates?”

“Just two talented kids playing on the same team. I know they hung out together a little bit here and there off the field. But they were both decent back in the day. Neither one of them got into too much trouble.”

“So, if Drake didn’t do it, who did? Hayward with some help?”

“Now you’re asking me to make a call on these two young men and accuse one of them as a murderer. I just won’t do it. I don’t think either one of them did it.”

Cal scribbled down a couple of notes on his pad.

“Think or know?”

“You never really do know about people. But I will say justice isn’t always meted out properly in Pickett.”

“What do you mean?” Kelly asked.

Faris turned toward her. “I mean, someone always has to get a pound of flesh. And some of the time, people are so mad that they don’t care about who’s pound of flesh it is. They just want the pound. And when it’s the sheriff’s beautiful daughter who was beloved by most everyone around here, two pounds of flesh might even be extracted.”

“I’d say it was more than that with Drake getting sentenced to death,” Cal said.

“On that point, I’ll agree with you. But it may have been another case of good ole Pickett justice. I think there were plenty of other people they could’ve pinned Susannah’s murder on. Why Drake was the target is a question that eludes me to this day.”

“Care to venture a guess?”

Faris shook his head. “Too many suspects to sort through. And I certainly wouldn’t want any of my players, past or present, to think I’m casting aspersions on them, if you know what I mean. It might be me who ends up floating as gator bait in the Okefenokee.”

Cal offered his hand to Faris, and they shook before departing.

“Thank you for your time, Coach Faris,” Cal said.

Cal and Kelly hadn’t gone more than ten yards before Faris hustled up to them.

“One more question for you,” he said.

“What’s that?”

“Have you looked into Jacob Boone yet? If I were you, that’s a good place to start. He’d be my suspect with or without Hayward.”

“Why’s that?”

“You’re the investigative journalist,” Faris said. “You figure it out.”