Read Cover Your Eyes for Free Online
Authors: Mary Burton
first time. He stood apart from the crowd, partly concealed by a shadow cast by the building protecting his back. Given his dark suit, white shirt, red tie, and black western boots she’d have cast him as a banker or another lawyer. His short dark hair and square jaw fit the possible scenarios. However, the hard angles of his face, frown lines that cut deep, and a battle-ready stance dashed her theories.
For a moment she wondered why a man like him would be here and then the pieces fell into place. He was Detective Deke Morgan.
She’d done some checking on the twice-divorced detective and knew about his undercover work before homicide. A decade of monitoring every spoken word, anticipating conditions to go sideways, and burying his true-self deep were habits not easily broken.
Her stomach clenched. She’d seen him once in court eight or nine months ago. He’d testified in a drug case and though his hair had been long and his beard thick, the eyes held the same intensity as the man edging the crowd. The Deke in her memory had a Tennessee drawl, adding a quiet authority the jury did not ignore. After he’d testified he’d returned to the gallery and remained in his chair, stoic and watching.
Now his gaze skimmed her meager crowd, studying them until he seemed satisfied that this group was not driven enough to pose a threat. His gaze settled on her.
Rachel drew in a breath, wishing she could cross now and ask him about her DNA results. But as the idea formed, the news crews turned on their spotlights and shone them in her direction. Now was the time to make her point. Now was not the time to argue with Detective Morgan. She smiled at him, nodded, and then dropped her gaze to her notes as if he did not matter.
At exactly six fifteen, as the sun set, she stood on the curb, lifted the microphone to her mouth, moistened her lips, and began to tell the story of Jeb Jones.
The crowd grew quiet and news cameras rolled. Several times she paused to gather her thoughts, which kept trying to skitter ahead. More people stopped to listen and the flicker of the candles in the crowd grew brighter.
She could see disinterested faces grow solemn as the impact of her words settled. Passersby stopped to listen. “He deserves to have the DNA test.”
When she finished, the reporter, a woman with a tall lean build emphasized by a red body-slimming dress, moved to the front of the crowd and held out her microphone. A closer look revealed the woman was well into her fifties. “So do you blame the Nashville Police Department for a possible miscarriage of justice?”
“I can’t speak to what happened thirty years ago. I can only talk about now. And today the Nashville Police Department has DNA evidence from the Dawson murder trial. They’ve yet to respond to my requests for retesting and my fear is that the test will be forgotten or worse, swept under the rug and my client will die in prison.”
A murmur rumbled through the crowd. More hands shot up.
“What can we do?” Colleen shouted as if she too were part of the crowd.
“Call the police department. Call your councilman. Let them know that Jeb Jones deserves to be heard.”
A rumble washed over the crowd and she had the sense she might be winning. She looked into the camera. “Jeb Jones has been in jail for thirty years. He’s old and he’s sick. His time for justice is running out and we have to act.”
More rumbles. She was making headway. This might work.
“What about Annie Rivers Dawson? The victim !” The angry voice shot out from the edges of the crowd.
Rachel studied the cluster of people and settled on a woman dressed in a dark, loose-fitting dress who stepped forward. She wore her dark hair in a bun and no makeup adorned her pale angled face.
Rachel had thought someone might remember Annie and had prepared comments. “My focus today is on Jeb Jones. He’s been a victim of the system for thirty years.”
“Annie Rivers Dawson is dead .” The woman moved
For a moment she wondered why a man like him would be here and then the pieces fell into place. He was Detective Deke Morgan.
She’d done some checking on the twice-divorced detective and knew about his undercover work before homicide. A decade of monitoring every spoken word, anticipating conditions to go sideways, and burying his true-self deep were habits not easily broken.
Her stomach clenched. She’d seen him once in court eight or nine months ago. He’d testified in a drug case and though his hair had been long and his beard thick, the eyes held the same intensity as the man edging the crowd. The Deke in her memory had a Tennessee drawl, adding a quiet authority the jury did not ignore. After he’d testified he’d returned to the gallery and remained in his chair, stoic and watching.
Now his gaze skimmed her meager crowd, studying them until he seemed satisfied that this group was not driven enough to pose a threat. His gaze settled on her.
Rachel drew in a breath, wishing she could cross now and ask him about her DNA results. But as the idea formed, the news crews turned on their spotlights and shone them in her direction. Now was the time to make her point. Now was not the time to argue with Detective Morgan. She smiled at him, nodded, and then dropped her gaze to her notes as if he did not matter.
At exactly six fifteen, as the sun set, she stood on the curb, lifted the microphone to her mouth, moistened her lips, and began to tell the story of Jeb Jones.
The crowd grew quiet and news cameras rolled. Several times she paused to gather her thoughts, which kept trying to skitter ahead. More people stopped to listen and the flicker of the candles in the crowd grew brighter.
She could see disinterested faces grow solemn as the impact of her words settled. Passersby stopped to listen. “He deserves to have the DNA test.”
When she finished, the reporter, a woman with a tall lean build emphasized by a red body-slimming dress, moved to the front of the crowd and held out her microphone. A closer look revealed the woman was well into her fifties. “So do you blame the Nashville Police Department for a possible miscarriage of justice?”
“I can’t speak to what happened thirty years ago. I can only talk about now. And today the Nashville Police Department has DNA evidence from the Dawson murder trial. They’ve yet to respond to my requests for retesting and my fear is that the test will be forgotten or worse, swept under the rug and my client will die in prison.”
A murmur rumbled through the crowd. More hands shot up.
“What can we do?” Colleen shouted as if she too were part of the crowd.
“Call the police department. Call your councilman. Let them know that Jeb Jones deserves to be heard.”
A rumble washed over the crowd and she had the sense she might be winning. She looked into the camera. “Jeb Jones has been in jail for thirty years. He’s old and he’s sick. His time for justice is running out and we have to act.”
More rumbles. She was making headway. This might work.
“What about Annie Rivers Dawson? The victim !” The angry voice shot out from the edges of the crowd.
Rachel studied the cluster of people and settled on a woman dressed in a dark, loose-fitting dress who stepped forward. She wore her dark hair in a bun and no makeup adorned her pale angled face.
Rachel had thought someone might remember Annie and had prepared comments. “My focus today is on Jeb Jones. He’s been a victim of the system for thirty years.”
“Annie Rivers Dawson is dead .” The woman moved