Today, we have an excerpt from The Plinko Bounce, the latest legal thriller/mystery by Martin Clark. I’m a relative newcomer to Clark’s work, having only started reading him with 2019’s The Substitution Order. Since then, though, I have read and enjoyed a number of his novels, and am very much looking forward to reading this latest. Due to be published by Rare Bird Books on September 12th, here’s the synopsis:
For seventeen years, small-town public defender Andy Hughes has been underpaid to look after the poor, the addicted, and the unfortunate souls who constantly cycle through the courts, charged with petty crimes. Then, in the summer of 2020, he’s assigned to a grotesque murder case that brings national media focus to rural Patrick County, Virginia — Alicia Benson, the wife of a wealthy businessman, is murdered in her home. The accused killer, Damian Bullins, is a cunning felon with a long history of violence, and he confesses to the police. He even admits his guilt to Andy. But a simple typographical error and a shocking discovery begin to complicate the state’s case, making it possible Bullins might escape punishment. Duty-bound to give his client a thorough defense, Andy — despite his misgivings — agrees to fight for a not-guilty verdict, a decision that will ultimately force him to make profound, life-and-death choices, both inside and outside the courtroom.
And now, on with the excerpt…
*
Andy stopped writing. He locked on to Ellis. “I’ve read the statement, sir. Sometimes my job is unpleasant. But I’m certain you, an experienced officer, understand I have to do my very best for any client, Mr. Bullins included.”
“And I reckon you understand I have a job to do for the dead lady who can’t look after herself no more and the community this man has terrorized for years. We all have our jobs and responsibilities.”
“I appreciate the reminder,” Andy said, still making eye contact, drilling every syllable. “Just a few more questions, and we’ll be through.”
“If I wanted,” the cop bristled, “we can be through right this second. I don’t have to talk to you. You have my notes and the confession and everything you’re legally entitled to.”
“Your choice. You want me to leave? Say the word, Investigator.”
They stared at each other. The room was silent. A robin flew past the window behind Ellis and fluttered onto a car’s roof.
“Make it snappy.”
Andy continued: “Did my client say anything else after he signed the confession?”
“Negative,” Ellis replied the instant Andy finished speaking. “Oh, wait, he asked if he could take a piss before we left his little camper.”
“And you didn’t record the statement?” Andy pressed.
“No.”
“Why?”
“You tryin’ to claim I made a mistake copyin’ down what he told me?”
Ellis craned his neck. “Listen, Mr. Hughes, the statement I wrote out is exact, your client signed it, and Coy Hubbard heard every single thing we said. Deputy Hubbard was right there with me.”
“Not what I asked you,” Andy replied. He was looking at his pad again, writing.
“What did you ask me?” Ellis was still pitched forward.
“Why didn’t you record my client?”
“No law says I have to,” Ellis answered. “Deputy Hubbard heard the confession, and since the suspect was talkin’ freely and confessin’ to a murder, I didn’t think it’d be very smart to tell him to stop and be quiet while I pulled out a phone to record him and maybe spook him and shut him down from tellin’ us what happened. Hope that makes sense.”
“Fair enough,” Andy said. “Makes sense.” He pushed the statement to the cop’s side of the desk.
“Bottom line is Mr. Bullins cut an innocent woman’s throat.” Ellis sat normally, reeled in his neck and shoulders. He returned the statement to his file.
Andy stood. “Appreciate your time.” He offered a fist to bump, but the investigator remained motionless in his chair, cool and miffed. “Can’t,” he said smugly. “Corona.”
As he was cranking his Jeep, Andy spotted Deputy Coy Hubbard driving into the jail parking lot. A Meadows of Dan farmboy, Hubbard was as patient as he was strong, and he was honest, deliberate and good-natured— an excellent policeman. Andy waved at him, switched off the ignition, put on a mask, and walked toward the cop’s brown cruiser.
“Hey, Andy,” Hubbard greeted him. “Mornin’ to you.” They met near the main entrance and shook hands, their arms fully extended, heads offset. Hubbard’s hand was huge and rough, and a fingernail was partially missing, the damaged skin blackish-red underneath the jagged remainder.
“Morning to you, Coy. Glad I ran into you. Dispatcher said you were taking the day off.”
“Storm last night tore down a poplar on my fence. My cows were loose. I planned to repair it and chase ’em back this mornin’, but when I got there, my dad and my neighbors had already rounded ’em up ’cept for one stubborn heifer, so it didn’t take the bunch of us no time to finish. I decided to come on in.”
“Well, I’m pleased to hear everything’s fixed and your cows are home. How in the world do you ever make any money farming? Seems to me it’s nothing but expense and aggravation.”
Hubbard laughed. “My wife keeps askin’ me the same question.”
“You have a few minutes to talk?”
“Yes sir. Happy to. But how ’bout we get out of the sun and heat? You wanna come inside?”
“Won’t take that long,” Andy assured him. “Over there be okay?” He pointed at the shade underneath the canopied sally port doors.
“I’m assumin’ you’re here about Mr. Bullins some more,” Hubbard volunteered as they walked side by side but several feet apart. This was their fourth time discussing the case.
“Yep,” Andy replied. He didn’t bother recording their conversation—they’d worked together for years, and he could count on Hubbard to always tell the truth, no matter whom it might benefit.
“What can I do for you?” Hubbard asked.
“When we first talked, you mentioned that you were there with Investigator Ellis the entire time at Bullins’s camper.”
“Yes sir. I was.” They’d reached the shade. Hubbard wiped his forehead with a red bandana handkerchief. “Heavens to Betsy, it’s hot.”
Andy was also sweating, his shirt turning damp across his belly. “I forgot to ask last time I interviewed you: Did you notice the blood on my client’s pants?” The topic was more ruse and camouflage, intended to obscure the money question that would come later.
“Yeah, I did.”
“One leg or both?” Andy asked.
“Both,” Hubbard said.
“How high did the splatter go on the pants?”
Hubbard squeezed his eyes shut. Knotted his lips. “Not past his knees on either side. It wasn’t much, but you could definitely see it.”
“Let me backtrack just a bit. Sorry. Investigator Ellis said Bullins invited you in, then you guys began to serve the arrest warrant—”
“Like I told you before, he didn’t make no fuss,” Hubbard interjected.
“Strange for Damian to be so cooperative. He’s usually itchin’ for a fight.” “Who physically cuffed him?”
“Me,” Hubbard replied. “Honestly, everybody was on guard, and I just wanted to get him under control as fast as we could.”
“Okay,” Andy continued. “I understand Bullins told you he was submitting to the arrest—”
“That ain’t precisely how he put it, but yeah.” Hubbard adjusted his utility belt. “You know how he can be.”
“Better than most,” Andy said. “And then, immediately, while you’re still making the arrest, Investigator Ellis Mirandized him.” “Correct.”
“So you saw the blood on the pants as soon as you laid hands on Bullins.” Hubbard thought for a moment. “Pretty much. Yeah.”
“Then while Ellis reads him his rights, you’re cuffing him, patting him down, checking for weapons, focusing on the arrest process, concerned because it’s Damian Bullins, and he’s a suspect in a violent murder?”
“Yes.”
Andy paused. He touched his cheek with his index finger. Debated whether to ask a few more questions and risk an unhelpful answer. “Had… uh…can you tell me the exact sequence? What Ellis was doing and what you were doing, how you guys matched up?”
Hubbard’s expression became serious. He realized that somewhere in all the smoke and mirrors and thicket of questions there was a lawyer trap, but he was an honest cop, and he’d learned long ago the best answer was always the stone-solid truth, that fudging and trying to outfox attorneys never went well. He swatted at a yellow jacket, missed. “I remember I’d started searchin’ Bullins when Investigator Ellis began readin’ the rights. Ellis actually said ‘I’m gonna read you your Miranda rights,’ and I seen he had a folder that he carried his papers and so forth in, but once he started readin’, I was more worried about dealin’ with The Bull than I was anything else. I was payin’ full attention to the dangerous guy I was arrestin’. So I’m not positive about the specific times down to the second, but I’m positive Damian confessed. He owned up to it. I stood right there while he told us how he killed the poor Benson lady.” Hubbard swung at the yellow jacket again. “Damn bee.”
“Thanks, Coy. Appreciate the time.”
“Sure.” The officer abruptly stepped left and looked past Andy. “Don’t know what in the world we’re gonna do ’bout him,” he remarked. Patches the dog had appeared from behind the jail and was lapping water from a silver bowl. Hubbard walked closer to the building, knelt, and dipped a finger in the water. “Already too warm. Need to refill it.” He dumped the water and stood.
“No one here wants him?” Andy asked. “I heard he was recently orphaned.”
“He don’t want none of us,” Hubbard answered. “Claude Baliles carried him home, and the crazy rascal left and come straight back here. Four-point- six miles. I measured it myself. Claude was worried to death, searched and called for the dog all night, and the next mornin’ here’s Patches, strolling down Commerce Street and barkin’ when he got to the jail’s door.”
Andy laughed. “Well, you guys were a constant source of aggravation for his beloved master. He probably figured Claude for the enemy.”
“In that case, Andy,” Hubbard declared, “you oughta take him home with you. You and his daddy were best buds.” He smiled. “I’m serious. Maybe you could adopt him. He’s smart as a whip. You ever seen him do his tricks?”
“I have. He’s impressive. We’re old pals. I’ve probably invested fifty bucks in his dog-and-no-pony show over the years, and I’ve visited with him—a lot—while Zeb was waiting to sign paperwork after one of his trials ended.” He whistled and the dog trotted to him. “A few months ago, I gave Patches a ride here, to the jail—remember when he was limping and dragging his leg? Unfortunately, though, it’s not a great time for me right now. A new dog doesn’t fit my circumstances, sorry to say.” He petted Patches and repeated “good boy” in a friendly, singsong voice. “I miss having a pup around. It’s been close to a year since Rufus died.”
“Sheriff ’s gettin’ impatient. Can’t blame him. We ain’t the pound, and I suppose there’s all grades of complications and liability and whatnot if he bit someone.”
“Oh, one last question, Coy, please.”
“Is this the loaded one?” Hubbard asked amiably. “The reason why you truly come today?”
“I’ll let you decide. I’m interested in your opinion—what do you make of Investigator Ellis? I just met him for the first time.”
“Hmmm.” Hubbard kicked at the pavement with the toe of his shiny cop shoe. “He’s a different-natured fellow. Has his own style. Let’s leave it there.” “Thanks.” Andy tugged his damp shirt away from his belly. He crouched and said goodbye to the dog. “Stay out of the highway,” he warned the mutt. The Jeep’s interior was blazing hot, and Andy dialed the fan to its highest speed. He tossed his mask on the dash. He tuned the radio to the Sirius jazz channel, the real article, not the squishy spa junk, and he was clicking on his safety belts when he heard Coy Hubbard shout his name, and he checked the rear-view mirror, and the officer was running full tilt, waving his hands, and he was chasing Patches, who was hell-bent for the vehicle. The dog ended his frantic dash near the Jeep’s front tire and plopped onto his haunches, then looked up with his mismatched eyes, his tongue in a Gatling-gun pant.
Hubbard slowed to a walk. “Come on, man,” he said to Andy. “Even a heartless lawyer like you can’t leave him behind now. Seriously.”
Andy considered the dog, who sat there steadfast. He had no tail, only a nub, and his blue eye was encircled by black fur. “So this is the deal, Coy,”
Andy said. He turned off the engine. “I don’t need to worry about him hitting the road and trying to make it back here—it’s a heck of a lot farther than four-point-six miles from my house. I’ll take him, but first, you and I are going to allow him to tour the jail complex and every cell and office and closet and room and shower and toilet in there, so maybe we can convince him Zeb’s not around.”
“Say what?”
“You heard me,” Andy insisted. “We’ll go together, you and I.”
“We’re holdin’ almost two hundred inmates—”
“I’m sure Patches is familiar with many of them,” Andy interrupted.
“It’ll be like Old Home Week.”
“And I ain’t comfortable just bustin’ in to other people’s private offices,”
Hubbard complained.
“Perhaps we could ask the magistrate for a search warrant.”
“Sheriff’s car’s gone,” Hubbard mused. “I’ll have to see if Lieutenant Craddock will approve it.”
“Well, Coy, I’m betting he won’t,” Andy said. “Me, I’d make the call myself. You’re a shift supervisor with twenty years of service.”
“But like you was sayin’, Andy, a man would probably starve if farmin’ was his only income. His wife and kids would go hungry too.”
*
Martin Clark’s The Plinko Bounce is due to be published by Rare Bird Books in North America and in the UK, on September 12th.
Also on CR: Review of The Substitution Order