A Tissue of Lies

By CD Wilsher

It’s only when attorney Frank Connor is falsely accused of murder that he realizes everything he’s believed in is a lie. Twenty years ago, as a young lawyer, Frank unsuccessfully defended Tyrell Sikes on rape and murder charges. Sikes spent nineteen years on Death Row before being freed because his DNA didn’t match the semen and tissue samples. Armed with the proceeds of a $10 million settlement for wrongful conviction, Sikes is now bent on exacting revenge against the people he holds responsible for his imprisonment, including his former lawyer. So when Sikes is found floating in Turtle Bayou with a two bullet holes in the back of his head, Frank’s the natural suspect.

• Language: English
• Publisher: CD Wilsher
• Release date: Aug 4, 2020
• ISBN: 9780463698693

CD Wilsher

I’ve been a lawyer for thirty-three years and so I am experienced in dealing with conmen, liars, and thieves. And that’s just the other lawyers! The legal profession does cause you to see people at their worst, their most desperate, and their most wounded. It’s easy to be cynical when you’ve deal with the legal system, but once in a while a glimmer of humanity manages to peep through. And it’s all of grist for the crime novelist’s mill. Be sure to check out my blog Post Industrial Noir at cdwilsher.com.

Book preview

Chapter One

When the intercom buzzed, Frank Connor was rooting around in the center drawer of his desk, pushing aside a lien notice from the IRS, the current issue of the state bar journal, and an old birthday card from his ex-wife and son. A stress headache was pounding its way from his left temple to the base of his skull, and he was looking for the five-hundred-count bottle of Tylenol.

The intercom buzzed again. He cogitated for a second before finally punching the red button.

Mr. Sikes is here to see you, said Jolene, his secretary.

Tyrell Sikes, he’d showed after all. An old client dropping in for a visit. How bad could it be?

Bad as he wants to make it.

Send him up, he said.

Frank pulled on his suit jacket. He gathered the mess of files on his desk into a single giant pile and then hid the pile on the floor behind his desk.

The door swung open, and Jolene showed in a hulking black man dressed in a black T-shirt, black cotton pants, and clunky biker boots with brass rings on the sides. Frank extended his hand but Sikes ignored him. He dropped into one of the 18th Century wingback chairs Frank had picked up long ago on a trip to London, when things were better, financially speaking. The chair creaked under Sikes’s weight. Frank nodded in the direction of the hallway and Jolene withdrew, closing the door behind her.

Frank gave Sikes his most practiced smile.

Tyrell, I’ve been looking forward to seeing you again.

Sikes fixed his gaze at a spot a few inches above Frank’s head. Frank had forgotten how black Sikes was, his skin so dark it was hard to tell where the fabric of his shirt left off. He was much bigger than the tall but scrawny twenty-two-year-old Frank remembered. His neck was thick and sinewy, and his chest strained at his shirt. He must have worked out a lot in prison. Wasn’t that what they did? They lifted weights all day, getting bigger and stronger. That never seemed like a good idea to Frank.

Sikes made a grunting noise. It sounded like pea gravel going through a garbage disposal.

Mister Frank Connor, looks like you’re doing pretty good for yourself. Last I remember, you was working out of that strip mall down by the highway. No secretary. No nothing. Just you and that old bail bondsman you shared an office with.

That was a long time ago.

Yeah, twenty years to be precise. Twenty long years.

But you’re doing better now, Frank said.

You mean my settlement? Sikes shot his cuffs. Ten million dollars. A cool five million after the lawyers took their cut. But money can’t make up for what I lost.

Sikes gave Frank the thousand-yard-ex-con-don’t–fuck-with-me stare that Frank had seen from many of his clients. They learn it in stir where the first con to look away is the punk. The stare was made more disconcerting by Sikes’s eyes, which were different shades of brown, the left lighter than the right.

Frank met his stare.

Is there anything in particular I can do for you today, Tyrell? he said.

Sikes’s head swiveled around, surveying the office. He scowled as his flinty gaze settled on a photograph of Frank with his ex-wife and son.

I can’t say there is all that much in particular you can do for me today, Sikes said, his voice hard and raspy, the voice of a man old before his time. But your assistance would’ve been greatly appreciated twenty years ago. Back when you was my court-appointed lawyer, and I was on trial for my life.

I’m sorry for what happened, believe me. It was a horrible injustice. There are no words to describe it. But if you’re holding me responsible for what happened, you can think again.

"Excuse me? I should think again. I had plenty of time to think about it. Twenty years. Nineteen of those years behind bars."

What happened wasn’t my fault, Frank said evenly. I went the extra mile for you. Past the extra mile.

Wherever you went, it wasn’t far enough. According to that federal judge in Houston. You failed to find that eyewitness. He would’ve made all the difference in my trial.

Frank cleared his throat.

The judge said I wasn’t at fault, he said. The prosecution should have disclosed there was an eyewitness and that the eyewitness had given a statement favorable to you. I just didn’t know about the witness. There was no way I could know since the prosecution withheld the statement.

Frank was sounding defensive and this irritated him. There was no reason to be defensive.

It was your job to know, Sikes said, his voice rising. You would’ve found him if you’d defended me the way you were supposed to. I wouldn’t have gone to jail. Wasted half my life behind bars. All along, you were saying you were working hard on my case--

I was. There’s no way I could find a witness I didn’t even know about.

It’s not only the witness. There are other things, too. Things I know about now but didn’t know then. You worked my case half-assed. My lawyers say I have a legal malpractice case against you. Ineffective assistance of counsel. Inadequate pretrial investigation. Negligent trial preparation.

Frank sucked air deep into his lungs, telling himself to back his anger down . . . not a good time to lose his temper. He made stupid decisions when he lost his temper and did stupid things. Sikes was staring at him with those mismatched eyes. Was he wearing a wire? Was he recording their conversation? He might be trying to set me up, Frank thought.

Did you tell your lawyers you’re coming here today?

Yeah, they know.

Did they tell you not to talk with me?

They don’t tell me what to do, I tell them. I don’t work for them. They work for me. He reached in his jacket pocket and extracted a piece of paper. But I thought you’d try to come up with a silly-ass excuse not to talk with me. Here’s their authorization.

He tossed the paper on the desk. Frank ignored it. He needed to get Sikes out of his office. Right now. Sikes was angry and rightfully so. He’d spent nineteen years in prison for a crime he didn’t commit. But that wasn’t Frank’s doing.

He had to talk him out of filing a malpractice suit. A lawsuit was the last thing he needed in his life.

You have no cause to sue me, Tyrell. Even if you did, your case is barred now. Something we lawyers called the statute of limitations.

When it comes to legal malpractice, there’s something you lawyers call the discovery rule. That statute of limitations didn’t begin until I discovered your malpractice. That wasn’t until I got let out, after the DNA tests proved I didn’t do it. You have a lot to answer for.

Frank stood, leaned forward, clutching the edge of the desk.

I’m not going to be intimidated by your threats. He pointed toward the door. Get out of my office. This is over.

You don’t frighten me, standing over me with that ugly face you’re making. I spent nineteen years inside. You don’t know what I’ve seen. Nothing scares me. Sikes sat up straight. Another thing you need to know. This isn’t over, not even close. It’s not just the malpractice. You had a conflict of interest you didn’t tell me about.

Frank slumped back into his chair, confused. Now you’re talking crazy. There was no conflict of interest.

I’m not crazy. I talked to another guy in stir, named Juan Rodriguez. You remember him? I expect not. You pleaded him out on his first hearing. You never listened to what he had to say, like how he couldn’t have committed that armed robbery. He--

You can’t believe what prisoners say.

Sikes’s face turned to stone. Juan said Judge Ewell appointed you to be his lawyer. Said the judge appointed you on a lot of cases in his court. The way Juan figure, you wanted to keep in good with the judge so he’d keep giving you appointments and you could keep making your money. You--

That’s not--

"You didn’t want to rock the boat, no sir. You worked my case. But you didn’t work it too hard. Fact was, everybody wanted me to be guilty. Not in your interest to get me off. He pointed his finger at Frank. You’re going to regret what you did to me."

A stab of pain knifed into Frank’s left eye.

I didn’t do anything to you.

"Didn’t do anything for me neither."

Frank picked up the phone and cradled it in his hand. I’ve had enough. Get out of here before I call the police.

And something else I learned. This was your first murder trial. You never told me that--you were going to school on me and I never knew.

Frank started punching numbers on the phone, while keeping one eye fastened on Sikes.

And Judge Ewell used to be your father’s law partner. I know that for a fact. Probably the reason he appointed you. He appointed his buddy instead of a lawyer who would look out for me.

Sikes had done his research well. He’d had plenty of time. Frank hit the last two numbers and raised the phone to his ear.

I’ll be going, Sikes said. You need to hear me out because I’m coming after you. I was framed. Only question is, was my lawyer in on the frame? Or was you just incompetent? I don’t know. Yet. But I aim to find out. This is the beginning, not the end.

No, this is the end. I gave you the best defense possible. You need to understand that and get on with your life.

He grinned, displaying two rows of large, gleaming teeth. If it was such a good defense, why did an innocent man spend nineteen years in prison?

Chapter Two

He stood by the second-floor office window, watching Sikes stride across the street. Sikes was right about one thing. He was an innocent man--the DNA tests proved it. He never should’ve spent a day in prison let alone nineteen years. Now, he’d convinced himself that Frank had blown his defense--or worse, he’d conspired to frame him.

His eyes lighted on the framed photo on his credenza. It was of his ex-wife and their son, Frank Junior. Frank Junior was proudly holding aloft a twenty-two-pound red snapper he’d caught on a fishing trip in the Gulf. The sky was a clear blue, the water a darker blue. Frank wasn’t in the photo--he’d been handling the camera. He recalled Tyrell’s expression when he stared at the photo--anger mixed with frustration. Maybe he was thinking of the wife and children he’d never had and was holding him responsible. Or he could’ve had something else on his mind, something involving his family.

His family--that’s the way he still thought of them, although we weren’t a family anymore.

Frank waited a few minutes before making his way down to the street and across the courthouse square to the Boot Track Café. Fifteen steps down the stairs, six steps to the front door and then precisely forty-eight steps across the square. He counted every one of them every time.

Outside, the bright sunlight hurt his eyes. He had slammed down a couple more Tylenol and the pain in his eye had dulled to a vague gnawing sensation, but the sunlight was making it worse. He had three more pills in his pocket and he considered taking them but decided not to. He seemed to remember that taking too much Tylenol could cause liver damage. Or maybe it was kidney damage, he couldn’t remember.

His shirt was damp with sweat by the time he arrived at the cafe. Almost November, and the air was like a thin stew. But that’s the way life is on the Gulf Coast of Texas, and the locals will tell you if don’t like it, you best move away to some place like California where the weather is a far sight more sensible.

He pushed open the door to the Boot Track, ducking his head as he entered. Inside, four Formica-topped tables, three booths along each wall, and, if you wanted a view of the kitchen, a lunch counter with enough space for four stools. Not even noon, and the place was packed. A couple of young prosecutors were at one table, no doubt gossiping about witnesses, cops, judges, defense lawyers. Frank remembered those days and he missed them. Life had been simpler then. Fewer responsibilities, fewer problems. Mouse Davis was in his corner booth next to the front window, chatting with Judge Ewell, his father’s old law partner and the man who’d appointed Frank to be Tyrell Sikes’s lawyer.

Mouse had been the chief investigator for the DA’s office for forty-five years, Frank’s father, Tom Connor, being the DA who hired him. Mouse had quit a couple of years ago--word was he’d had a falling out with the new DA, Mark Prater. Now Mouse operated his own one-man PI agency, doing mostly insurance work. Frank waved and Mouse gave a curt nod in return.

He needed to do something about Sikes. What had he said? You need to hear me out because this isn’t the end.

Frank didn’t like the sound of that. Sikes was aiming to keep causing trouble. This situation needed to be nipped in the bud before it got out of hand, and he knew the person to do the nipping.

Sheriff Bobby Lee Weathers sat alone, as usual, in his booth in the back corner next to the kitchen. Frank slipped into the booth. Bobby looked up from his meal--it appeared to be the remnants of a chicken fried steak, French fries and collard greens--and wiped around his mouth. He was a giant of a man, a couple of inches taller than Frank and fifty pounds over his playing weight from when he’d been an all-state offensive tackle.

What can I do for you today, Counselor?

His voice carried a little bit of an edge. He didn’t like to be disturbed during lunch.

Had a visit from Tyrell Sikes, Frank said as he rearranged his silverware and napkin so that everything was symmetrical.

Heard Tyrell was in town, Bobby said.

Bobby gave him a funny look and Frank realized that he was tapping his fingers on the table top.

Tyrell was quite unpleasant, Frank said.

From what I remember, Tyrell was never a very pleasant individual. I’m sure a nineteen-year stretch in state prison hasn’t improved his disposition.

You could say that he was threatening.

What did he do?

It was his general attitude.

No crime to have a bad attitude. Sometimes I wish it were. Make my job a whole lot easier.

He said I was going to regret what I did to him.

Bobby took a slug of his coffee. That’s kind of vague. Person might mean anything when he says something like that. What’s his beef with you, anyway?

A lot of crazy talk. He said I didn’t do a good job defending him.

Unhappy client. Comes with the territory, doesn’t it? And, after all, he did go to prison.

And he was innocent. Bobby left that hanging there.

He said he was thinking of suing me, Frank said.

Wouldn’t be surprised. He received ten million from the county. You must be next on the list.

Frank leaned over the table, looking Bobby straight in the eye.

So, Bobby. You can tell me truly. Your hemorrhoids acting up again?

Frank had known Bobby Weathers as long as they’d both been alive, and he’d always figured one day he’d get a laugh out of him, or at least a smile. This was not to be that day.

Bobby’s slit-like eyes narrowed. No, my hemorrhoids aren’t bothering me. But you’re getting to be a royal pain in the ass. His expression softened. Francis, listen to me. This is not a good day to go screwing with me. Believe it.

I could do with a little help here. Looks like Tyrell’s going to use the money from his settlement to come after me. That’s what I don’t need. A millionaire with a grudge against me. Frank looked around for a waitress. Could never figure why the county rolled over so fast on that lawsuit of his.

"He did have evidence of wrongdoing on the part of the DA’s office, much as it pains me to say. The favorable treatment he got on Sixty Minutes didn’t help none. That old boy knows how to play the system. You’ve got to give him credit for that."

Still. Ten million dollars. That’s half of what the county paid on teacher salaries last year. That’s something the voters won’t soon forget.

Senator Wilkins better hope the voters forget since it was his son who extracted that money. My theory is that the case settled fast because some folks didn’t want too many rocks kicked over. At least not concerning Mister Sikes.

What can you do to help me? Frank asked.

With Tyrell? Not much. Not against the law to threaten to sue a person. If it was, you lawyers would all be in jail.

I think he’s fixing to do more than just sue me.

Like what?

Frank thought about how Sikes had stared at the picture of his family.

Like something violent, he said. He’s very angry. Can’t you drop him a hint? Like maybe he should move on down the road and leave me alone?

You mean roust him? Sheriff’s department hasn’t done that in thirty years. Have the ACLU on our ass in a heartbeat if we tried. If there were anybody I was inclined to roust, it wouldn’t be Tyrell Sikes. Not with his legal team.

Wanda came over, and Frank inquired as to the daily special.

Fried chicken, fried okra, French fries, she said.

The widow maker, Frank said. Give me extra cream gravy on the side.

Of course.

He watched as she walked away, waiting until she was out of earshot.

I don’t want you to do anything illegal, Frank said.

Appreciate that.

I just want you to talk to him. Before things get out of hand.

An expression of concern crossed Bobby’s face. I thought you said he didn’t make any threats.

He didn’t. It’s a feeling I have.

I can’t act on your feelings. As long as Mister Sikes obeys the law, I’m not getting anywhere near him. And be advised, you’re not the first person who suggested I have a heart-to-heart with Tyrell.

So, we wait until Sikes does something really bad. Is that the plan?

You worry too much, Francis. You get yourself all worked up over nothing. You’ve always been that way. Let matters take their course.

You got anything constructive to say?

Bobby mopped up a puddle of cream gravy with a morsel of bread. Why don’t you file for a restraining order? That might help. If he violates it, then I’ve got grounds to arrest him.

I might do that. There is something else.

What’s that?

I need to see the investigation file on the Sue Ellen Grimes killing. The whole file. Even that stuff ya’ll usually don’t turn over. If I’m going to get sued, I better start preparing a defense.

Bobby scratched his chin. Don’t see why not. The whole file was disclosed in that civil rights lawsuit. Tyrell already has everything. Only seems fair you should have the same. Come by about two and I’ll make it available. Anything else I can do for you today, Counselor?

Yeah, I would appreciate an address and phone number for Arnie de Vries.

Can’t help you there. I haven’t seen Arnie in a coon’s age. Best try the DA’s office. He was their fair-haired boy. Until everything went bad, that is.

By the time, Mouse Davis made his way over, Bobby was long gone and Frank was scraping the last piece of cherry pie a la mode off his plate.

Mind if I sit a spell? Mouse asked, pointing at a chair.

Frank nodded, his mouth being full of pie.

Mouse leaned forward, craning his neck upward. He had come by his nickname honestly. A small man, he had a narrow face and big ears.

How’s business? he asked.

Hanging in there. Doing a lot of creditor defense.

Mouse’s nose twitched. Representing deadbeats?

Don’t know if I would call them that. A lot of people are hurting right now. Anyway, it’s a living.

You’re a better lawyer than that. You should take clients who’ll pay your fees.

Business is tight. Gotta take what I can get.

Baugh County is jumping. Some lawyers are making big money right now.

Unfortunately, I don’t seem to be one of them.

He gave Frank a hard stare, the same stare he’d given him thirty-four years ago, when Frank crashed his father’s Buick into the rear end of Mouse’s Plymouth. Right there in front of the courthouse, with God, the World, and half the local bar association watching. Frank spent that summer cutting Mouse’s yard and the yards of his neighbors to pay for the damage. That had been a damned hot summer, too.

You could do a better job of marketing yourself, Mouse said.

Frank wiped around his mouth.

You mean run some ads on TV for whiplash cases? he asked.

Not that. Just work on your people skills. Your bedside manner never has been the best, Frank.

I try to tell it like it is. I’ve never sugar-coated anything. If people don’t like it, too bad. At least I’ve told them the truth.

Heard Tyrell Sikes is in town, Mouse said, looking away.

Yeah, a blast from the past.

Practically our most famous resident. Mouse emitted a mirthless chuckle. Think he’s aiming to cause you trouble?

Frank considered Bobby Weathers’s attitude and his reluctance to help.

I don’t know what Tyrell’s going to do, he said.

Mouse gave him that hard stare again.

Frank cleared his throat. I guess he’s going to cause me some trouble. Looks to be his intention, anyway.

My opinion, he’s going to aggravate lot of folks in these parts. That’s his plan and he’s got the financial means to do so.

It was Frank’s turn to chuckle. If you believe misery loves company, then I guess that’s a good thing.

How you feeling? Physically, I mean.

I’m fine.

This was untrue. For months, he had been feeling tired and unmotivated, sleeping poorly, unable to concentrate.

I’m feeling fine, he repeated. Why do you ask?

He gave Frank another hard stare and then stood.

You need anything, you give me a yell. You have a few friends in this town, Frank. You should remember that. But a word to the wise. There’s a lot going on. You need to watch your back.

Chapter Three

Frank pushed through the doors of the Baugh County Jail, a four-story white concrete building cheek-by-jowl with the municipal courts. The administration offices were on the first two floors, jail cells on the top two floors. Bobby’s office was on the southeast corner of the second floor, where he’d get the morning light. A male member of the Weathers clan--first Bobby’s father, then Bobby’s uncle, then Bobby--had occupied that office for forty years.

When Frank arrived, Bobby happened to be out. A secretary led him down a long corridor to an interrogation room. A metal table occupied most of the room, which featured a one-way mirror on one wall. A thick Redrope file folder lay in the middle of the table next to a pair of manacles welded into the top of the table. Standing with one hand on the file, was Gil Garcia. Garcia was medium height and knife-thin, his face narrow, his cheeks