A Victim Of Chance: A Pawn in a Bigger Plot

By Tony Wilson

Carl Donovan's life changes when he agrees to defend a Black man accused of murdering his White wife. What the small-town lawyer thought as just a case born out of racial discrimination turns out to be a different twist entirely when the FBI suddenly gets interested in the case, and a powerful and determined cartel keeps doing everything to keep his client in prison while threatening his life and his family's.

A love triangle ends in a suspicious murder.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Newman Springs Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Dec 6, 2021
• ISBN: 9781638811145

Tony Wilson

Tony Wilson is a much-loved Australian children's book author and one-time Hawthorn draftee. His books include Harry Highpants, The Princess and the Packet of Frozen Peas, Stuff Happens: Jack, Emo the Emu and The Cow Tripped Over the Moon, which was an Honour Book in the 2016 Children's Book Council of Australia Awards. Tony lives in Melbourne.  

Book preview

Chapter 1

November 5, 1999

Robert Reeds was one of the few powerful men in Gray of Jones County. One of the four black sheriffs in the state of Georgia. As the only Black to succeed in being elected sheriff of Jones County in the past twenty years, Robert was a celebrity among the locals. If there was some type of trophy or medal for law enforcements’ poster boy, Robert would be in the lead for the prize.

Born and raised in Jones County, Robert graduated from Gray Elementary School at the age of eleven before proceeding to Jones County High School. He was popular for being smart and as one of the best basketball players in his class. He joined law enforcement after graduating cum laude with a political science degree from the University of Georgia. After months of unsuccessful persuasion, his mother yielded. She had no choice but to let him be.

Robert was friendly with everyone and even had the respect of those who hated him. The Black people loved him because he was one of their own who had proven over the years to be the opposite of the assumed norm of Black men. That being criminals and below-average people. Whites loved him because not only was he a genius, but he was tough on crime as well. He had reduced the crime rate by 67 percent since his election. That’s why they voted for him a second time and used him as an example to correct their kids every once in a while.

Like most of his mates when he was younger, Robert had big dreams—dreams that didn’t involve him wearing a uniform or being in law enforcement. He wanted to be a lawyer who would one day mature into a political leader in congress or maybe the White House. However, Robert soon realized that it wasn’t what he wanted. It wasn’t like he didn’t like the sound of it, but he’d just seen too much. In the late sixties, he witnessed the mob killing of his uncle by agitated White people who thought he was responsible for the robbery and killing of a local jeweler. He decided then that he would do something to contribute to the betterment of the Black community.

After graduating at twenty-one, he began his journey into law enforcement with the New York Police Department. After ten years of service, he relocated to Texas where he served as an army ranger for five years before relocating back to Jones County Georgia. When the opportunity to run for the sheriff’s office opened six years ago, Robert was apprehensive about entering the race. Some of the Black community leaders approached him and convinced him to run for the office. No harm in trying. After all, the worse that could happen was to lose. To his surprise, he had won by a landslide! Not only did he get 100 percent of the Black votes, but also over 80 percent of the White vote. His opponent had greatly underestimated his popularity, and that had resulted in his victory.

In the second year of his second term, Robert still hated it when he got calls about death. Assault, battery, racketeering, or fraud, these crimes ranked higher than murder as far as he was concerned. After over twenty years in law enforcement, Robert wondered why anyone would want to take another person’s life. Despite his feelings, days like this were inevitable. Not frequent but inevitable. In the last six years, his office had only handled fifteen murder cases. Compared to his days at the NYPD, that was a small figure.

Robert was preparing to leave his office at the jail for the Black and Proud group meeting when Veronica called his office. Aside from being a member of the Black and Proud group, Robert knew Veronica on a personal level. She was one of his secret informants, although only a handful of his deputies knew that. Her job allowed her access into homes and closeness to others. This gave her firsthand exposure to conversations and documents that she passed on to Robert. Especially if it was criminal, or if he had asked her to look out for a particular case. Unknown to many, she was the reason why some of the most notorious criminals in Jones County were in prison.

The call was short. All Veronica told him was that there had been a death. If it was a murder or suicide, she couldn’t tell. He needed to come as soon as possible to the residence of Dave and Tracy Cooper. Robert didn’t need an address. He knew the Coopers very well. He knew every house in Gray and their occupants. Before the call dropped, he told Veronica to stay put and not allow anyone onto the premises until he arrived.

With four of his men in tow, Robert left his office at the county jail for the Stone Brooke Avenue address where the Coopers lived. The trip was short. Most people were at work, and it wasn’t rush hour. The little traffic they encountered dissipated when they heard the siren of the approaching convoy. Robert parked his car behind Veronica’s famous blue van. James Lowe, his closest friend in Gray and the best deputy in the sheriff’s office, rode with him. They were followed by the other deputies—Joe Small, Crew Collins, and Ollie Hawkins. Men whom Robert had always counted on to help him get to the bottom of things.

Robert alights from the car first, followed by James. After lighting a cigarette, he waited for the other three officers to get out of their vehicle while he scanned the house.

Those things will kill you one day, James said, referring to the cigarette sticking out of Robert’s mouth.

Robert chuckled and almost choked on the smoke, causing him to cough suddenly. You’ll kill me faster with your jokes and interruption, but I promise I’ll quit.

That’s what you said the last twenty times I said that. James shook his head.

What are you? My wife? Robert puffed smoke and giggled again. I promise. I’ll quit. Soon.

You smoke like a chimney.

James’s last statement attracted laughter from all the five men. They wiped the grins off their face as the door of the bungalow opened and Veronica emerged in her blue gown, her white maid apron still tied around her waist.

Robert scanned the environment before Veronica could walk down the porch and the short flight of stairs. The street was silent. The only sound heard was the chirping of birds and an occasional hooting of a car horn from the distant road. Most of the driveways and sidewalks were empty. Only a few occupants either worked the night shift or had opted for public transportation. Robert liked that. He hated investigating cases where the crime scene was already swarmed with onlookers. He doubted it will last long. Gray was a small city. Word would spread. Soon, everyone would know that the sheriff car was at the Cooper’s house. People who could afford to close their shops or excuse themselves from work would be on their way to gather gossip and check it out. Hopefully, he’d be done with the scene before they arrived.

The Cooper’s house was distinct. Unlike most of the Victorian-styled houses on Stone Brooke Avenue, it was the only bungalow in the whole street. Built in the early sixties by a tobacco farmer, the house remained standing years after his death. When the son of the tobacco farmer opted to sell the house because he was moving out of town, Dave Cooper, who had just saved up to buy his first house, quickly offered to buy it. He spent over five thousand renovating it and came up with a unique color to paint the house. Something between blue and yellow. Robert explained to whoever would listen that it was created from the blend of three different colors. Everyone in Gray knew the story—almost everyone in Gray knew everyone.

The house was the same way he remembered it from four days ago. Patrolling around the streets of Gray whenever he had a light workload. He had passed through Stone Brooke just four days ago. Never imagining that he’d have to return to investigate a murder or possible suicide.

It could also be natural causes.

Robert didn’t know the Coopers very well. Tracy Cooper was obsessed with her health and practiced yoga regularly. She once filed a case against one of the doctors at West Valley Hospital for prescribing her the wrong drug. Why would someone so young and fit want to commit suicide?

The question was one without an answer. In Robert’s experience, people committed suicide for different reasons. Regardless of what they wrote in their suicide notes, voice, or video recording, no one could know why they killed themselves. I guess only they knew.

Good morning, Sheriff. Veronica offered her hand to Robert, who accepted it and shook it firmly.

Robert smiled at the reserved greeting. Understanding that she couldn’t blow her cover as an informant by being too familiar. Good morning, Mrs. Parker. That’s if there is anything good about the morning for you. People don’t like starting their mornings by running into dead people. Unless, of course, if they work in a morgue.

Veronica smiled slightly at the comment. She wasn’t sure what the sheriff intended to do with the statement, but he was right about one thing. There was nothing good about walking in on a dead woman.

You already know Deputy Lowe and most of the other deputies, so we can skip the introduction. Robert turned and faced the deputies. You all know who she is. Veronica called this in, he said, pointing to the house.

With the introductions out of the way, Robert asked Veronica to retell how she found the body. The freelance maid retold how she came into the house and found Tracy Cooper in a state of rigor mortis. The detectives took notes individually while the sheriff puffed his cigarette, occasionally interrupting Veronica to ask some questions.

When he was satisfied, Robert asked the maid to wait by one of the patrol vehicles and ordered Crew Collins to stay with her while the remaining four officers investigated the scene. Crew was the youngest and probably the newest of the squad. Joe Small grabbed the investigation box and followed the sheriff with the other officers in tow.

Robert wasn’t surprised when they entered the large living room. As he had predicted, very little had changed since the last time he was here. Although he had been through Stone Brooke several times and knew Dave Cooper personally, he had only entered their house once. Once was enough for Robert. He had a photographic memory that helped him remember things exactly as he heard or saw them. That was how he excelled as a police officer.

The living room was oval. Rumor has it that the original homeowner was so obsessed with the presidential office in the White House that he asked the architect to design his living room in an oval shape. It was dimly lit, hiding the beauty of the wonderful paintings on the vintage walls. Thick velvet curtains hid the long floor to ceiling windows from view, giving the room a staged theater look. Three large couches sat on the hardwood floor, with two of them sitting opposite each other with the third adjacent. A beautiful handwoven Persian rug lay silently in the middle of the couches. The wall had a couple of pictures of Dave and Tracy. There were also portraits of an older couple. They must be Tracy’s parents since they are White. There are a couple of colorful pieces of art.

Robert peeled his eyes from the house’s aesthetics and allowed them to rest on Tracy Cooper. Lay silent as if she was in a deep sleep. The sheriff didn’t need to check her pulse or see if she was breathing. Tracy Cooper was dead. It was very obvious from the stiffness of her body and from the way her bosom stood still, not rising and falling as it does in a normal living person. Nevertheless, Sheriff Reed pulled his walkie-talkie from its pouch and radioed the office. He asked the person on the other end to inform the medical examiner office of a possible suicide or murder and gave the address of the Coopers. The ME was to be told to report immediately.

Two of the other deputies walked the room, taking notes and pictures where deemed necessary. Robert and James Lowe closed the gap between them and the body.

Overdose? Robert asked.

Maybe, Deputy James Lowe began.

I don’t think so. If Tracy had a drug problem, someone would have known. It’s a small community, remember.

The sheriff exhaled the smoke in his mouth, dropping the cigarette and grinding it into the wooden floor. His makeshift ashtray.

Contamination of a crime scene!

Sheriff Reeds didn’t care. It was his crime scene, and as long as they didn’t tamper with evidence or contaminate it, he was okay with ending the life of one cigarette at this location. The smoke was beginning to distract him, and he needed to think straight.

Find the light switch, Robert bellowed.

The two roaming deputies scampered around, trying every switch they could lay their hands on. Ollie Hawkins finally found a switch, and when he flicked it, the huge chandelier dangling in the center of the drywall ceiling suddenly illuminated the room, forcing the four men to squint their eyes until they adjusted to the intensity of the lights.

For the first time since they arrived, Robert took in the whole room. There wasn’t much to see that he hadn’t seen before. Aside from the room, the only other thing worth seeing was the body and the little dried white patch that ran down her cheek.

Was she epileptic? Where the fuck is Dave?

Robert wondered if Deputy Lowe was telepathic because his next question as they both examined the body was exactly his thoughts.

Where the hell is her husband? Deputy Lowe asked almost in a whisper. If there is anyone who can shed light on what happened, it must be him. I mean, I am no expert, but judging by the body, I’ll say she has been dead what? A day? Maybe less. And to think he wasn’t the one to call it in, he continued.

Robert also wondered the same thing. He had known Dave Cooper for years. Although their relationship couldn’t be classified as friendship, they maintained mutual respect for each other. From his contribution to the group and their other few interactions, Robert could tell he was a smart man, too.

Smart enough to commit murder?

The question hung in the air as the sound of another car pulled into the driveway, distracting Robert from finding the answer to that question. He turned and waited. Deputy Lowe was also staring at the door like his superior officer.

Katerina Stewart chose that time to come into the house. She was a short woman in her midfifties with hair pulled back into a pony tail. She was stubborn as a goat, but one of the smartest people Robert knew. She wore her usual floral-patterned shirt, one button undone at the top. Tucked into impeccably ironed black pants as was her usual fashion. Horn-rimmed glasses framed on her face. He noticed that her hair was beginning to show signs of grey. Katerina was the medical examiner in Jones County for the sheriff’s office. She was only rivaled by Dr. Peter Thompson who doubled as a surgeon. He stood in for Katerina when she wasn’t available.

Robert smiled as she entered. A thin young man who the sheriff didn’t recognize followed the medical examiner with a boxlike bag over his hanging shoulder.

Katerina, I called your office as soon as I got here, said the sheriff.

She ignored the smile, which was supposed to be a form of greeting. What do we have here, Sheriff?

It’s what I’m hoping you’ll tell me. I don’t know how to rule it yet if it’s murder or suicide.

What do you know about the victim?

Robert hesitated for a second to answer the question. He was sure Katerina already knew Tracy Cooper. Her name is Tracy Cooper, wife of Dave Cooper. Midthirties. Runs a small interior design firm on Stewart Avenue. He paused. What is it called again?

Rosetta, Deputy Lowe replied, causing almost every head to turn in his direction.

What?

I bought my wedding anniversary bouquet from the shop, he replied, rolling his eyes.

Katerina had latex gloves on, and she was working her magic as far as Robert was concerned. He didn’t understand any of the tasks she was performing but watched as she opened the dead woman’s mouth. Taking a swab with a cotton budlike tool, she forced the eye open. Flashing a bright torchlight, she examined the dried patch on the cheek.

Cause of death, food poisoning, she said to the thin man beside her who Robert had now assumed as an intern or newly employed assistant since Katerina didn’t do any introductions.

Robert scribbled the cause of death in his notepad. How can you be so sure?

Because it’s my job, the medical examiner replied, her sarcasm obvious.

Sheriff Reeds shrugged his shoulder, realizing how stupid his question sounded. He regretted framing it that way. He should have asked the question in a better-framed manner, rather than sounding like he didn’t trust the ME’s judgment.

Her pupils are dilated. Her mouth is dry, and the dried patch you see here, she said, pointing to the dead body’s cheek. This is residue from the foam that must have come up as a result of the poison.

The sheriff listened carefully, taking notes as the ME spoke. Robert concluded his note-taking and looked up to still see the ME still checking the body.

If she was poisoned, how come she didn’t make any attempt to call the hospital or her husband? And if it was suicide, what was her motive, and where is the note or tape recording?

I can’t be certain until I examine her and run a few tests, but the time of death should be roughly about nine to eleven hours ago.

Robert caught a glimpse of Deputy Lowe’s face that read the I-told-you-so look on his face. He ignored him and focused on the body. Its position didn’t scream poisoning since she was stretched out perfectly as if she died in her sleep.

Don’t you find it odd that she didn’t attempt to call 911 or anyone else? He turned to face Deputy Lowe but gazed at Katerina Stewart, too. I mean, someone who was poisoned would try to contact a hospital or someone when they started to feel sick.

Katerina removed her gloves and placed them in the toxic disposable box. Not all poisons work that way. Some are lethal enough to kill you in your sleep, and in some cases, you wouldn’t even feel a thing.

Robert’s eyes caught the empty glass on the oak dining room table. He walked to the table and with a handkerchief, picked it up slowly. If the cause of death is food poisoning, I think I found the instrument of delivery. I might be wrong, but just to be safe. I want samples of every edible thing in this house tested in the lab.

That’s a good idea, but when I open her up, I’ll be able to tell what she ate that poisoned her, Katerina said.

Robert was grateful that he hadn’t eaten breakfast. The thought of dissecting the body of Tracy Cooper nauseated him.

Chapter 2

November 5, 1999

Robert Reeds waited until the forensic team arrived before they started bagging and tagging any of the evidence. His instructions to them were to comb every nook and cranny of the bungalow. If there was as much as a fingerprint, a hair sample, or any DNA that didn’t belong to either Tracy or Dave Cooper, he wanted to know who it belonged to.

He instructed the other deputies to search the house for any motive of suicide or murder. He has yet to conclude which one it was. And finally, one of the deputies went in search of Dave Cooper. Robert wondered how he’d break the news of his wife’s death to him.

For the next two hours, Seventh Stone Brooke Avenue was a beehive of activities. The forensic team took samples of everything. Hair strand samples from the combs and brushes in the bathroom. Fingerprint samples from any and everywhere they showed up after dusting the entire house, plus every other forensic-related sample they could find.

Deputy Lowe combed through the couple’s room. He checked everything. They looked at the computer, gift items, and even the shoes in the closet. Thirty minutes into his search, he came across a small black leather diary. Deputy Lowe called Sheriff Parker over to his position before he opened the diary.

This was the part Robert hated the most about criminal investigations. He disliked prying into other people’s private affairs. He hated it. Once, a priest was accused of money laundering for one of the local drug cartels. Robert had him followed for weeks, only to determine that the accusations were all false, but he did learn that the priest visited one of the city’s brothels every Wednesday. Even after the money laundering charges were dropped, he couldn’t bring himself to attend church on Sunday for almost a year. That was what prying into other people’s lives could bring.

As Robert took the diary from James, he knew he was about to open a can of worms. One of the reasons I’d never keep one. If there was another option, he would have taken it. But there wasn’t. A woman was dead, and prying into her private life was about the only way to tell if she committed suicide or if someone killed her.

Robert moved slowly to the bedside sofas and sitting before he opened the diary. It was one of those diaries that always went on sale for less than two dollars at the gift shop. The content was articulate. It was pretty much what he would have expected. Aside from a few phone numbers, addresses, and a couple of grocery list items, it was filled up with details of mundane events listed by day.

Everything was written in black ink. Judging from the name on the personal information page, it belonged to the dead woman and not her husband. Robert started at the beginning, carefully reading everything.

It started on January 1, 1999. There were details about her plans to buy a new house somewhere in Mississippi. She talked about a fight she’d had with a customer in her shop on April 3 and the details of how elated she was on her birthday on April 30. All normal entries one would expect in a diary.

On May 22, Tracy wrote about her suspicion that her husband was cheating on her. She didn’t have the details but intended to get to the bottom of it. As Robert turned the pages, he ran into more and more details of Tracy’s suspicions.

Dave was cheating?

On June 5, 1999, the entry simply read: I followed Dave today for about thirty minutes in a cab. I watched him enter the Canary Hotel with a woman. I couldn’t see who she was, but I will find out who she is.

The rest of the sentence was smeared, Robert guessed that Tracy must have been crying when she wrote it because the page was a bit crumpled—like it was wet and had dried over time. Robert stopped reading and reached into his pocket, withdrawing a cigarette and sticking it in his mouth. Before he could light the end, he caught glimpse of Deputy Lowe shaking his head as he