Chapter 35
Hank
AFTER THE ALIBI
Ask Camille why I was at the Rosary.
The entire weekend, that one sentence has plagued me. Haunted me. Kept me up at night.
I send Camille a text telling her I need to talk. My phone rings less than a minute later.
“Hey,” she says when I answer. “What’s going on?”
“Hey, checking on you. How are you holding up today?”
It’s Sunday and exactly a week since she found Ben. I imagine it’s a rough day ending a rough week, so I’m not jumping right into questioning her about Aubrey Price and St. Francisville.
“I’m better than I thought I’d be, but that bar was pretty low. I think the fact that I’m wearing regular clothes and not the pajamas that were welding themselves to my skin is a good sign.” Her words are light but there’s still a heaviness to her voice.
“That is a good sign.”
“Is there something you wanted to talk to me about or were you just calling to make sure I got out of bed this morning?”
Camille is a weakness for me. More than I would have admitted when Ben was still alive. Funny how Deacon picked up on it before I did. And he was right when he said I was trying to protect her. But I can’t do that if I don’t know the truth. “I got a weird call Friday night.”
“Oh. What was it?”
“The police conducted a search on a house for Ben’s hunting knife.”
“What? Where?”
“The owner of the residence called me after the search was completed and came up empty. Her name was Aubrey Price.”
Her gasp tells me everything I need to know.
“I don’t understand. Why…why would she call you,” she says.
I’m quiet for a moment then say, “Camille, I can’t help you if you don’t let me in.”
Emotion spills out of her in a sob. It’s gut-wrenching. She cries for several minutes and I hate myself for bringing her further down today than she already was.
Finally, she seems to pull herself together. “I can’t talk right now but…but are you free later?”
“Yes, I’m available whenever you need me. Do you want to talk at your parents’ or somewhere else?”
“Not here! But I don’t want to drive my car…”
“I can pick you up. I have something I need to do around lunch and then I can head that way.”
“Okay, Hank. I’ll see you when you get here.” And the call ends.
Glancing at my watch, I think through what I need to do between now and then.
It’s time to have a conversation with Paul.
To outsiders, the Angola Prison Rodeo must seem too ridiculous to be real. Every Sunday in October, the prison that houses the most dangerous criminals in the state of Louisiana opens its door to folks of all ages.
There are the usual events you expect to see at a rodeo: bull riding and barrel racing, but there are some that are unique to Angola.
There’s convict poker, where the inmates sit at a poker table in the middle of the arena then a wild bull is released and runs straight through their card game.
The person who stays seated the longest wins.
And then you have one event called wild cow milking, which is exactly what it sounds like.
The inmates who sign up, risking life and limb, have their reasons, I guess.
Any prize money is deposited in their commissary account, which they can use to purchase such luxury items as a new toothbrush, an extra blanket, or even specialty foods.
And I’m assuming the bragging rights to winning Angola’s version of the chariot races come with their own benefits.
Plus, prison life is stagnant. Every day is the exact same.
I would think getting to break that routine while you train to ride a bull would be enticing.
The inmates who have creative skills get to take part as well.
They have a chance to peddle their wares from behind a twelve-foot-high fence that is topped with razor wire.
Their products, everything from belts and bags to wooden signs to jewelry to clothing, will be laid out on tables on the other side of the fence.
They are free to haggle with customers for the best price for their handmade creations and it’s a safer way to make some money.
While most will make their deals from behind the fence, the ones who have exemplified model behavior are rewarded with a level of freedom they haven’t had since being incarcerated.
Those inmates will be under a different shed, where they sit behind their table with no fence separating them from their customers.
This is where Paul Granger will be, which I discovered after reviewing Paul’s file again this morning.
I’ve been to this rodeo once before, in college. A big group of us drove over and spent the afternoon watching the absolute chaos and mayhem of the events. Didn’t walk through the arts and crafts part, though.
It’s not uncommon for friends and family members of inmates to buy a ticket for the day and spend their entire time next to them while they conduct their business. I figure I can use that same model to get a few minutes to talk to Paul, off the record of course.
There are guards everywhere, armed to the teeth, but the process to get in is relatively easy. No bags on me so all I have to do is empty my pockets and walk through the metal detectors. Then I’m inside.
The air is thick with the scents of grilled hamburgers and hot dogs, popcorn and churros. The open-air sheds are long but the shade is welcome since the temperature is still in the nineties even though it’s mid-October.
Every inmate behind every table is turned toward the main gate, hopeful either that someone special has shown up to spend the day with them or about the possibility of a big sale that will fatten their account to last until the craft show opens again in the spring.
I’ve met with Paul once so I know who I’m looking for, but by the third aisle, I’m thinking he’s not here.
He could have gotten into trouble and they wouldn’t let him participate today.
Or he sold everything in the earlier shows and is out of inventory.
I worry momentarily that this is a wasted visit.
Then I spot him. I head to his table, but a family of five beats me there.
“Oh, I love these! Did you make all this yourself?” The mom of the group is picking through the leather goods he has laid out on his table in front of him.
I take this time to study everything he’s selling. He hasn’t noticed me yet since he’s giving the group in front of him his full attention.
Paul had just turned thirty when he was locked up, and there’s no reason to believe he possessed this skill prior to that, so not only did he learn a new craft but he has perfected it.
There are braided leather bracelets and necklaces, wide cuffs and belts in every size, and some cool bookmarks.
I spot several items that match the ones he gifted Aubrey.
The stitching is nice, as are whatever tanning techniques he uses to get the finished color he does.
Outside these gates, he could sell these pieces for ten times what he charges in here.
“The leather comes from the cows here after they’re butchered for our food. They weren’t killed for their hide, which I think is important. Everything is handsewn. You won’t find better quality anywhere else.” He is right to be proud of his work.
He haggles with the dad over a bracelet his daughter wants until they finally agree on a figure only slightly less than the original amount.
Once that family moves on, Paul turns his attention to me. It’s clear he recognizes me instantly.
“What are you doing back?” He has a deer-in-the-headlights look. I’m sure he’s heard of Ben’s murder, which would make my visit worrisome.
“Your work is beautiful.”
A smile stretches across his face at my compliment and he relaxes a bit. “Thank you. Not much else to do in here.” Then his guard is back up. “Why are you here?”
“Honestly? I’ve got a couple of questions I hope you’ll answer.”
“About my case?”
I shake my head. “No. About Aubrey Price.”
He takes a step back. “Why, because she came to visit me?”
Not what I was expecting him to say. “When did she visit you?”
His face scrunches up like he’s trying to decide if I’m tricking him in some way, so I say, “Look, I’m trying to help her out. She may be in some trouble.”
Paul’s face drops. “Oh, shit. No, they can’t get to her too.”
“Tell me what you can so I can help her.” I may be exaggerating our relationship a bit but she opened this door when she called me about the cops searching her house.
“She was here last Saturday. First time she came to see me.”
Last Saturday. The day Ben was killed.
“Was this a planned visit?”
He shakes his head. “No. She just showed up.”
“Did she say why?” It’s like pulling teeth getting an answer out of him.
“Yeah. She had questions just like you.”
We stare at each other and I wait for him to add more but he doesn’t. “Can you tell me what she wanted to know?”
All he does is shrug.
“I’m not going to waste your time or mine. You can be up front with me now, and if there’s some way I can help you with your case, I will.”
It takes a little longer before he finally gives it up. “Same thing you wanted to know when you came to see me the first time. Wanted specifics on the new evidence.”
“So Aubrey was aware of that too.”
He nods.
“And did you tell her what it was exactly?”
“Yeah. May as well tell you too. It’s a video from a surveillance camera. But before you ask, no, I never saw what was on it.”
I think back to Ben’s handwritten note in his file on Aubrey and Paul. “Did Kevin Foster come see you in early June? Was he the one who told you about the video?”
Paul’s eyes get big, and it’s the only confirmation I need that “Chief” and Kevin Foster were the same person.
“Yeah, it was him.”
“Did he give you any information other than telling you about the existence of a video?”
“He said the driver was at my house that night. Should be easy enough to match them to that list of people.”
I know what list he’s talking about. Same list I asked Scott to do a deep dive on.
Paul grips the edge of the small table. “Maybe you can call Foster, talk to him. But don’t tell him I told you his name! I mean, I didn’t have to, you already knew it. Just don’t want to scare him off from helping me.”
My mouth turns down in a frown. “Paul, I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this but Kevin Foster died over a month ago.”
Paul’s face pales and he sits back on the wooden chair behind his table. “I’m never gonna get out of here now.”
I lean forward. “Look, there’s a good chance what he had wouldn’t hold up in court. I’d have to prove chain of custody and a lot of other things. But after looking back at your case, I’m not even sure we need it. There’s enough there that I think an appeal would be possible.”
His mouth drops open as he stares at me. “You’ll take my case?”
I hold a hand up. “I’m looking at it very closely. I’m not promising I can get you out of here but if I think there’s a true path forward, I will take it.”
He jumps up and tries to hug me but I catch his hands between mine and we do an awkward sort of double-fisted shake.
“I can’t thank you enough!”
I nod and say, “One last question before I go: Tell me about the last note you sent Aubrey. The typed one. Something about how you hoped she had more luck than you did?”
His brow furrows in confusion. “What are you talking about?”
I reach down and pick up one of the jewelry boxes similar to the one in her room last night. “You sent it with one of these.”
Paul is shaking his head before I finish.
“I sent her a wallet and some bracelets because those fit in a flat envelope. Gave her the bookmark when she was here last week. I wouldn’t have sent her one of these.
Shipping is too expensive ’cause it needs a box.
Plus they don’t let us use computers so you can only send handwritten letters. ”
My mind is spinning. Aubrey believes that jewelry box and letter were from Paul, and there wasn’t any reason for her to lie about that. But if it wasn’t from him, who was it from?
“You keep a list of who buys your stuff?” I know it’s a long shot while I’m asking it.
“No, almost everything I make is sold at one of the craft fairs to people walking up.”
“Almost everything. When else do you sell things?”
Paul laughs. “No, this is the only place I sell things. I got permission to give stuff as gifts to people who come visit me.”
I let out a loud sigh. I feel for Paul, I do, but he makes helping him very difficult. “Is there anyone you’ve given a jewelry box to as a gift?”
“Yeah, gave one to Foster.” He picks up one from the table. “Looked a lot like this one.”
Holy shit. Paul didn’t send that jewelry box to Aubrey, but Foster could have. That’s why the letter was printed instead of handwritten. “I think Foster sent the box to Aubrey with a letter. The one she has looks just like that one. But why would he have just sent her a letter?”
His face lights up. “Maybe he gave her the video!”
I shake my head. “No, she said it was empty other than the letter.” She would have known if there was a USB drive or some other device that would hold digital files inside.
“Did she check the compartment at the bottom?”
“What compartment?” Last night, I looked over the jewelry box very closely and I didn’t see a bottom compartment. Paul sees my confusion and flips the box over.
“There’s a small tab underneath here. Just give it a tug and the bottom opens up. It’s a space where you can keep stuff you don’t want anyone else to find. I showed Foster when I gave it to him so maybe he put it in there?”
I glance around to see if anyone is watching us. I feel like running out of here, hauling ass back to Aubrey’s for another look at that jewelry box, but I don’t want to give Paul any false hope.
“Let me do some research and I’ll be in touch soon.”
“Thanks, man, I appreciate it. It’d be nice to get out from behind these bars before I’m dead.”