Chapter 6 - THE SHERIFF’S VISIT
The blue and red lights painted the living room walls in rhythmic strokes of crimson and cold blue.
I didn't rush to the window. I slowly stood up, laid a gentle hand on Claire’s shoulder to keep her still, and walked toward the front door. Behind me, Doc Ellis stepped out of the kitchen, holding a fresh cup of coffee, his face grim.
"It's Miller," Doc whispered. "Warren didn't wait till sunrise."
I opened the front door and stepped out onto the porch, leaving the screen door latched behind me.
Sheriff Hank Miller stood at the bottom of the porch steps under a yellow slicker, water dripping off the brim of his wide-brimmed Stetson hat. He was a thick-necked man in his fifties with small, piggy eyes and a heavy mustache. He had held the county sheriff's office for twelve years, funded almost entirely by Warren Voss’s campaign contributions.
Beside him stood a young deputy, his hand resting uncomfortably near his holster.
"Sam," Miller said, his voice deep and raspy. "Rough night."
"It's raining, Hank," I said, standing at the top of the steps with my hands resting loosely in my jeans pockets. "What brings you out to the south road at five in the morning?"
Miller spat a dark stream of tobacco juice into the muddy gravel. "Got a call from Warren Voss about twenty minutes ago. Said you broke down his security gate, smashed his front door, and threatened his boy with a deadly weapon."
"I did," I said flatly.
Miller blinked, taken aback by how easily the words left my mouth. He adjusted his heavy gun belt. "Well, Sam... that's aggravated assault and felony destruction of property. I'm gonna need you to turn around and let Deputy Vance cuff you."
"Are you going to ask me why I was up there, Hank?" I asked.
Miller shifted his weight, looking past me toward the dark front window. "Domestic issues between a husband and wife aren't my business, Sam. Daniel says Claire had a hysterical episode and ran off into the night. Warren says you came up there looking for blood."
"Doc Ellis is inside," I said, my voice dropping an octave. "He's binding three broken ribs, setting a fractured wrist, and sewing up a split lip on my daughter. You want to go inside and take photos of her hysterical episode, Hank?"
The young deputy beside Miller looked at me, then up at the house, his face going slightly pale. He moved his hand away from his sidearm.
Miller’s jaw tightened beneath his mustache. "What happens between Daniel and his wife is for a family court to settle. Right now, I got a signed complaint from Warren Voss for burglary and assault."
"Then go ahead and pull your iron, Hank," I said softly, taking one slow step down the porch. "Cuff an old man on his own porch while his beaten daughter bleeds inside. But make sure your deputy writes down every word of this in his log book."
Miller didn't move. He looked into my eyes, searching for the quiet, compliant hay farmer he’d known for twenty years. He didn't find him.
"You've got three hours, Hank," I said.
"Three hours for what?" Miller growled.
"Before a federal prosecutor from the Department of Justice lands in Atlanta with an injunction against your department for official misconduct and obstruction of justice," I said. "If I go into your lockup, every phone call I make from that cell is going straight to the United States Attorney."
Miller stood frozen in the rain, the water streaming off his slicker. He knew about my connection to Marcus Vance—everyone in Hartwell County over fifty remembered the orphan boy who used to haul hay for the Reed brothers before making a name for himself in federal court.
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"You're playing a dangerous game, Sam," Miller muttered, stepping back toward his cruiser. "Warren ain't gonna let this go."
"Tell Warren I'm in the tool shed," I said. "Digging."
