Since his return from Afghanistan, he’d been unable to shake off the effects of spending almost a year in a war zone. They clung to him like a spiderweb, so fine as to be invisible, yet as tenacious as steel and, so far, impossible to escape.
Of course he was nowhere near as gone as Jeremy Wesson had been. No doubt the captain had suffered from the real thing, PTSD. It had cost him his family and ultimately his life, making him an ideal subject for a timely and relevant article, one certain to induce strong emotions in the reader.
But it was also the subject Dawson wished most to avoid. It cut too close to home.
And then there was the other element that made this story personally involving. Had Jeremy Wesson been Carl Wingert and Flora Stimel’s son? Were they or were they not dead? Dawson didn’t care. But Headly did, and he felt an obligation to his godfather to take the investigation at least one step further.
So, he’d come. And looking at it from a strictly journalistic standpoint, Jeremy Wesson’s life was a treasure trove of material. How could he possibly pass up writing the provocative story of a man who’d entered the world as the offspring of fugitives from justice, had experienced a seemingly normal upbringing in the Midwest, had honorably served his country, had returned home from war emotionally and psychologically wrecked, and then had been violently murdered?
It was an American version of a Greek tragedy.
With that in mind on his first night in Savannah, he’d shut down his laptop, washed down a sleeping pill with a slug of Pepto-Bismol to neutralize the Tabasco, and gone to bed. Five minutes later, he got up and took another pill, swallowing it with a bottle of Jack Daniel’s from the minibar.
He’d had the nightmare anyway. Twice.
Consequently he was groggy and ill-tempered for the first day of Willard Strong’s trial. He’d arrived at the courthouse early—not to claim a front-row seat, but to secure one in the back row near the exit so he could make a speedy and uno
btrusive getaway if he felt the need.
As soon as court had adjourned that first day, he’d headed straight for River Street, where he spent the remainder of the evening cruising the bars. Women were available, and sex would provide at least a temporary reprieve from the morbid thoughts that haunted him, but he hadn’t acted on any of the invitations, subtle or overt, that he received.
He made friendships that lasted only for as long as a drink or two, limited conversations to impersonal topics, and stretched out the time until the bars closed and he had nothing else to do except return to the hotel room, and to the hard, unforgiving pillow where night sweats and bad dreams awaited.
Up to this moment, he’d been bored with the trial and was trying to devise a graceful way to disengage himself from everything relating to it.
The appearance of Wesson’s ex-wife changed that.
* * *
Amelia’s left palm felt damp against the Bible on which she swore to tell the whole truth. Then she stepped up into the witness box and took her seat.
Jackson approached her. “Ms. Nolan, thank you for appearing today. Will you please state your name for the court?”
“Amelia Nolan.”
“That’s your maiden name?”
“Yes. Following my divorce from Jeremy, I reverted to using it.”
He smiled. “Nolan is an honorable name in this state.”
“Thank you.”
He glanced over his shoulder toward the defense table. “Ms. Nolan, do you recognize the defendant?”
For the first time since entering the courtroom, she looked toward Willard Strong. He sat with his shoulders hunched, his eyes peering at her from beneath the ledge of his prominent brow. His hair had been neatly combed. He was dressed in a suit that appeared to be two sizes too small. If she had to use a single word to describe him, it would be brutish.
She acknowledged recognition. “Jeremy introduced us.”
“When did this initial meeting take place?”
“February twenty-second of 2011.”
“You recall the exact date?”
“It was my older son, Hunter’s, fourth birthday.”
“Can you please tell the court the circumstances of this meeting?”