Course of Justice
For the first time in more than seven weeks, there was no crowd lingering inside Honey's Bar and Grill directly across the street from the county courthouse. Kaye, the waitress, who was not running herself ragged taking orders or delivering trays of food, had time to sit at a booth and drink a cup of coffee while Jamal, the short-order cook, took off his greasy apron and hairnet and went out the back door to smoke a cigarette.
Ex-marine gunnery sergeant Arnie Honeycutt, the proprietor and daytime bartender at Honey's, was taking advantage of the brief lull—the proverbial and much-welcomed calm before the storm—to peruse the sports section of The Boston Globe. He was saddened but not surprised to see that the Sox had lost another game, guaranteeing their hold on last place in the division. His head went up from the newspaper when the stranger entered the establishment and took a seat at the bar.
"Good afternoon," Arnie said to the customer as he reluctantly folded up his paper. "What can I get for you?"
"I'll take a glass of Coca-Cola," the stranger replied.
"You got it."
The bartender popped the top of a can and poured the soda into a tall glass filled with ice.
"It's a bit slow in here today. Isn't it?" the stranger observed.
"That's because everyone's across the street at the courthouse. The jury's expected to come back any moment now. People are anxiously waiting to find out the verdict."
"Verdict?" the stranger asked. "What verdict is that?"
"You haven't heard about the trial that's going on in town?"
The stranger's eyes narrowed, and he shook his head. Then, as he waited for Arnie to illuminate him, he took a sip of his Coke.
"It was in all the newspapers and on television. We even had that Nancy Grace from CNN come up here to cover the trial. In fact, she came in here a few times for lunch."
The stranger did not seem the least bit impressed by the mention of the true-crime celebrity, or perhaps he had simply never heard of the former Court TV commentator.
"So what exactly was all the fuss about?" he asked, not taking his eyes from his glass of soda. "What happened in this town to attract all the media attention?"
"We had ourselves a murder trial, one with all the elements of a Hollywood movie. Young Creighton Dillard, the only son of the town's wealthiest and most respected citizen, brutally murdered his pregnant wife."
"Don't you mean he allegedly murdered her?" the stranger asked. "After all, the man's guilt depends on the verdict of the trial."
Arnie's eyes narrowed. He hadn't taken the gray-haired, bewhiskered stranger as a bleeding heart liberal.
Maybe he's a defense attorney, the bartender thought.
With Honey's situated across the street from the courthouse, he had seen his fair share of lawyers over the years.
"Yeah, I know all that bunk about a man being presumed innocent until he is proven guilty. Trust me, pal. Creighton Dillard is as guilty as they come. Of course, everybody around here knows he'll beat the rap."
"Is that so?"
Was there a faint smile on the stranger's deeply tanned face? Odd that he would find something amusing in such a tragedy.
"It sure is. Old Man Dillard hired his only child one of those high-priced, Harvard-educated lawyers who made our county prosecutor look like a damned fool."
"It was a real courtroom drama, huh?" the stranger asked.
"As good as anything you might watch on Law & Order," Arnie replied. "It seems Creighton had a girlfriend, and Tammy—that was his wife—found out about her. She threatened to divorce him and take him to the cleaners. Because her husband's infidelity invalidated their prenuptial agreement, Tammy stood to walk away from the marriage with millions. Not bad for a former secretary."
"You think Mrs. Dillard married Creighton for his money?"
"Honestly? I doubt it. She didn't seem like that type of girl."
"You knew her?"
"I used to, but then this is a small town. Everyone here knows everyone else. I went to high school with the poor woman. Tammy Hodgson was always the shy, quiet, studious type. She wasn't very popular and didn't have many friends, but she was a real looker. She wanted to put herself through college, so she got a job working as a secretary in Dillard Industries, Creighton's father's company. That was where Creighton met her."
"And it was love at first sight, no doubt."
Arnie could not tell from the stranger's tone if he was being sarcastic or sincere.
"Probably not," the bartender answered truthfully after giving the matter a few moments' thought. "My guess is he just wanted to score an easy conquest and then move on. That would be more in line with Creighton's usual behavior: slam, bam, thank you, ma'am."
"But the young lady held on to her virtue for a higher price?"
Arnie bristled at the stranger's insinuation. He had always liked Tammy and thought Creighton a lucky man to be married to her.
"You make her sound like a tramp."
"No. Not at all," the stranger said. "Far be it from me to impugn Mrs. Dillard's character. I never even met the unfortunate woman. But I'll bet her husband's lawyer had a lot to say about her. He no doubt tried his hardest to blacken her name."
"Did he ever! It made me sick to hear the way he vilified her."
The stranger shook his head, for the first time apparently agreeing with the bartender.
"Seems like in most trials the victims are the ones who need a lawyer to defend them," the man said sagely.
"You got that right!" Arnie exclaimed. "Worse yet, Mr. Harvard Law School Graduate made Creighton Dillard look like a goddamned Boy Scout instead of the rich, spoiled brat, no-good womanizer we all know him to be."
"I take it that you're not a big fan of the defendant?"
"That's an understatement!" Arnie exclaimed, punctuating his sentence with bitter laughter. "He was an insufferable ass in high school, and he only got worse after we graduated. He was captain of the football team, even though he wasn't much of a player—not on the field, anyway. But there wasn't much that Old Man Dillard's money couldn't buy in this town. It'll no doubt get his son out of this mess he's in now."
"If that's the case, why didn't daddy just pay his wife off and avoid all this unpleasantness?" the stranger asked.
"That's a good question, my friend, and one I've heard a lot of people ask right here at this bar. What you and those people apparently don't know is that not only does Creighton Dillard think he's God's gift to the world, but he's also got a nasty temper. If it weren't for his father's money, he would have been brought up on assault charges on more than one occasion."
"He sounds like a charming guy," the stranger said facetiously.
"Believe me, he isn't. In fact, if the situation were reversed and Creighton dead and Tammy standing trial for his murder, I'd be on my knees praying for a not-guilty verdict."
"Didn't I hear you say that Mrs. Dillard was pregnant?" he asked.
"Yup. Four months. And if you ask me, she would have made a damned good mother. Tammy always liked kids, and was going to college to become a schoolteacher."
"It sounds to me like you might have had a bit of a crush on her yourself."
Arnie's eyes suddenly filled with tears, and he averted the stranger's gaze.
"I won't deny it. I did have a soft spot for her when I was younger, but it was one-sided. Tammy and I never dated or anything."
There was a brief lull in the conversation as Arnie pretended to be busy behind the bar until he could regain his composure.
"How did he do it? How did he kill her?" the stranger asked. "Allegedly, that is."
"He stabbed her, a total of sixteen times. Then, when the police questioned him, he claimed that a group of drugged out teenagers broke into his house to rob him. Strange how they butchered Tammy and only gave Creighton a few cuts on his arm, and not very deep ones, at that."
The stranger shook his head. It wasn't the first time he'd heard such a story. He silently finished his soda and ordered another.
"Do you want me to put anything in that Coke?" the bartender asked. "I'll throw in the rum on the house."
"Much obliged, but no thanks."
"Don't drink, huh?"
"I can't. Not in my line of work."
Arnie raised his eyebrows.
"Are you a cop?"
"No."
"A truck driver?"
The stranger shook his head.
"What do you do, then, if you don't mind my asking?"
The stranger smiled at the bartender's question.
"You probably won't believe me, but I'm ...."
A sudden commotion from the courthouse across the street drowned the stranger's reply.
"That's it!" the bartender exclaimed when he saw people crowding to get inside. "The jury must be back."
Kaye, the waitress, got up from the booth and stood outside on Honey's doorstep to watch as the camera crews followed Nancy Grace into the courthouse. Even Jamal, the cook, was curious and joined her.
"Time for the verdict," the stranger said and then downed his Coke and put a ten dollar bill on the bar. "Keep the change."
"Are you going to the courthouse to hear what the jury has to say?"
"Nope. You see, I share your opinion, my good fellow. I don't believe for one moment that the jury is going to convict Mr. Dillard."
"It's like I told you, right?" Arnie asked with excitement. "His old man's money is going to get him off."
"I'm afraid so."
"There's no justice in this world," the bartender cried angrily, slamming his fist down on the bar and rattling the ice in the stranger's glass. "No justice for poor Tammy and her unborn child."
"Sadly, I must concur with your conclusion, Mr. Honeycutt," the stranger declared with a weary sigh of resignation. "No one is guaranteed justice in this world. But who knows? Perhaps men like Creighton Dillard will have to answer to a higher court someday."
"Maybe," Arnie said with a despondent shrug. "Or maybe not. Just the same, I would have liked to have seen him pay for his crimes in this world."
The stranger smiled but did not reply. He nodded his head in a gesture of farewell, and then walked out the door, passing Kaye and Jamal who were craning their necks to watch the main entrance of the county courthouse.
A few moments later, Arnie Honeycutt left his bar, informing his employees, "I'll be right back. I've got to see this."
* * *
The reporters and camera crews congregated on the courthouse steps, waiting for the principal players of the courtroom drama to exit the building, and makeup technicians added quick touches to television reporters' faces. The frowning prosecutor and his equally grim-visaged assistant were the first to emerge. The two hurried down the steps with no comment for the press. Several minutes later the high-priced, Harvard-educated lawyer led his smiling client and the client's grateful father out the courthouse doors.
Journalists and TV reporters pushed and elbowed each other for access to the defendant.
"Creighton," one local newscaster asked, "how does it feel to be free again?"
"It's great!" the wealthy young man replied, grinning ear to ear.
"What are you going to do now?"
"Well, first, I'm going to go out and celebrate. Then ... who knows? Maybe I'll go to Europe for a few months or maybe the Caribbean."
"And what about your wife's killer? Are you going to pursue him?"
"I don't have much hope of ever seeing him brought to justice, not with the ineptitude that permeates our police department," Creighton replied sarcastically.
"My son and I will do everything we can to assist in the investigation," his father quickly added. "We're offering a fifty-thousand-dollar reward for information that will lead to the arrest and conviction of the guilty party or parties."
The reporters then turned their attention to the defense attorney, a brilliant litigator who had yet to lose a case.
"Mr. Levins, what do you have to say to all those people who claim Mr. Dillard's wealth gave his son an unfair advantage here?" one female reporter boldly asked.
The good-looking Harvard criminal attorney flashed a smile that had raised the pulse rate of many a female juror since he began practicing law and replied, "It's the American legal system at work. Two attorneys face off in a courtroom, and the better man—in this case me—wins."
"And what about justice?" the reporter pressed, relentlessly pushing her point.
"I'd like to believe that justice is usually served. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have other clients that need my attention."
As the victorious lawyer walked toward his late-model Jaguar in the courthouse parking lot, he passed by the bartender at the bottom of the courthouse steps. Arnie was glaring up at Creighton, with his heart full of frustration, anger and loathing. The former gunnery sergeant wished he had a gun and the courage to use it, but even if he did, it wouldn't bring Tammy or her baby back. Besides, his being arrested for murder and being sent to jail—since he couldn't afford a Harvard-educated lawyer—would only bring misery to his wife and child and. It was too high a price to pay for vengeance.
The defendant's eyes suddenly met the bartender's. Creighton knew what the man was feeling and why. The enmity didn't matter to young Dillard, nor did Arnie's certainty that he was guilty of first degree murder.
What do I care what you think? I got away with it, Creighton thought smugly and gave the bartender a condescending smile.
In that moment, Arnie hated Creighton Dillard like he'd never hated anyone or anything in his life. But as he was about to turn his head, the bartender saw the expression on the defendant's face abruptly change. His former look of arrogance turned to one of fear mixed with excruciating pain. Just moments later, the son of the wealthiest man in town was engulfed in flames.
The crowd quickly broke, as people stepped away from the burning man in fear of catching fire themselves.
"My God! Someone do something!" the senior Mr. Dillard screamed, trying to smother the flames with his suit jacket.
Several observers called 911 on their cell phones. Meanwhile, one newspaper reporter raced inside the courthouse in search of a fire extinguisher. When he returned, however, there was nothing left of Creighton Dillard but a pile of smoking ashes on the courthouse stairs.
"I never saw anything like that!" Arnie told the man beside him. "It was like he blew up or something, except there was no explosion. Just a quick flash of fire and—poof!—he's gone. I'll bet it was ... what do they call it?"
"Spontaneous human combustion," a cameraman three steps above him replied.
"Yeah, that's it. I saw something about that on the Discovery Channel once."
"Scientists say spontaneous human combustion is just a myth," the cameraman added.
"What else could have done that?" Arnie shouted above the clamor of the approaching police cars and fire truck.
"Maybe the poor bastard got struck by lightning," the cameraman suggested.
"Surely we would have seen a flash or heard the rumble of thunder if it were lightning."
However, neither the cameraman nor the bartender could come up with a more scientifically acceptable explanation. It was the silent man next to Arnie, whose face the bartender hadn't seen, who offered a more appealing explanation.
"Maybe it was simply a case of divine justice smiting the guilty."
Arnie turned and faced the Coke-drinking stranger from Honey's.
"I don't think science would agree with your theory either," the bartender said with a smile, "but I like it. It's a thought that'll make me sleep a lot easier tonight. Thank you, Mr. ....?"
"Raguel—not Mr. Raguel, just Raguel."
There was a sudden bright light that made Arnie close his eyes and cover them with his hand. When he opened them again a few seconds later, he half expected to find another burnt corpse, but there was no trace of the Coke-drinking stranger.
"Where did he go?" Arnie inquired.
The cameraman shook his head, unable to give the bartender an answer.
"How can a man, especially an older one, move so quickly?"
"That was no man," the cameraman replied.
"What?"
"Although not mentioned in the Christian Bible, according to the book of Enoch, an ancient Jewish religious text, Raguel was one of God's seven archangels, specifically, the archangel of Justice."
"Well, what do you know!" Arnie declared with a boyish grin.
Then he patted the cameraman on the back and invited him across the street to Honey's Bar and Grill for a celebratory drink—on the house, naturally.
"What are we celebrating?" the cameraman asked as the two men crossed the street.
"Justice," the bartender replied. "Justice for Tammy and her baby."
No, Salem I've never heard of spontaneous feline combustion. (And what did I tell you about smoking cigarettes?)
