Joanna could feel her temperature rising. “Are you saying Hickman may try to turn that poor woman’s death into a political football?”
“It wouldn’t be the first time,” Ernie said. “And it sure as hell won’t be the last.”
When the phone rang, Joanna punched the speaker button. “Yes,” she said.
“Lydia Morales with the governor’s office is on the phone,” Kristin said.
“Put her through.”
Lydia Morales sounded young-about Joanna’s age, perhaps-and businesslike. “Governor Hickman wanted me to get some information on the incident down there last night,” Lydia said. “He’ll have access to the Department of Public Safety’s files, of course, but he did want me to ask a question or two. For instance, the victim, this Hannah Green, she wasn’t black by any chance, or Hispanic, was she?”
“Black or Hispanic?” Joanna repeated. “What does dial have to do with it?”
Lydia paused. “Well, certainly you understand how, when a prisoner dies in custody, there can always be questions of racism or police brutality or…”
“Or violation of constitutional rights,” Joanna finished.
“Right,” Lydia Morales confirmed brightly.
Hearing Lydia’s response, Joanna knew Dick Voland was right. This really was politics as usual. Lydia Morales and Governor Hickman had no real interest in Hannah Green’s tragic life and death. They were looking for votes, plain and simple. They were checking to see if there were any political liabilities involved or gains to be made in the aftermath of what had happened the night before in the Cochise County Jail. How many constituents would be adversely affected, and could the governor be held accountable?
“You never answered my question about Hannah Green,” Lydia persisted.
Joanna tumbled then. In the minds of the governor’s political strategists there were, presumably, both a black voting block and an Hispanic one as well. Unfortunately for her, Hannah Green fit in neither category.
“Hannah Green was an Anglo,” Joanna said tersely “Good,” Lydia returned. “That will probably help.”
“Help what?” Joanna asked.
“How this thing is handled,” Lydia returned. “The kind of press it’s given. Believe me, trying to fight a racism charge is tough. Definitely lose/lose all the way around.”
Joanna was stunned at being told that having an Anglo woman die in her jail was somehow less politically damaging than having a black or Hispanic prisoner die under similar circumstances. Joanna was still reeling under the awful burden of her own part in Hannah Green’s death. So were the other weary, grim-faced police officers gathered around the conference table.
AII her life, Joanna had been teased about her red hair her matching fiery temper. Something about Lydia’s glib response set off an explosion in Joanna’s heart, one she made no effort to contain.
‘What you’re saying, then,” Joanna said, “is that violations of constitutional rights are more important if the person being so violated happens to fall in one or another of the politically approved minority categories?”
The question stopped Lydia cold. “I’m sure I…” she began
“Perhaps you could give Governor Hickman a message for me,” Joanna continued. Her voice had dropped to a dangerously low level. “You can tell him that Hannah Green’s constitutional rights were violated.”
“Were?” Lydia Morales repeated. “Don’t you mean weren’t?”
‘No,” Joanna corrected. “I mean were. I believe that our investigation will find that her civil rights were violated for years. Every day, in fact, starting with the moment thirty years ago when her father slammed her hand in a car door and then refused to take her for proper medical treatment. From that time on, and maybe even earlier, Hannah Green was denied life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.”
“By her family, you mean,” Lydia said, sounding relieved more. “Not by a police officer. That would make her death unfortunate, of course, but it shouldn’t be a problem from the governor’s point of view.”
From the governor’s point of view!
“It should be,” Joanna shot back. “Hannah Green may not have a natural base of constituents, but let me remind your, Ms. Morales, two people are dead down here. Most likely those two deaths are attributable to the rising tide of domestic violence. An abuser is dead, and so is his victim. If Governor Hickman isn’t worried about that, he sure as hell ought to be. Good day, Ms. Morales.”
Reaching out, Joanna jabbed at the speaker button, depressing it and disconnecting the call. Then she looked at the three men gathered around the conference table. Tom Hadlock said nothing, but Dick Voland was grinning from ear to ear. Ernie Carpenter was actually applauding.
“Way to go,” Dick Voland told her. “It’s not exactly how to go about winning friends and influencing people, but I couldn’t have said it better myself.”
Tom Hadlock pushed his chair back and stood up. “Glad that little coming to God is over. Now, if you don’t mind, Sheriff Brady, I think I’ll go home and try to get some sleep.”
As Hadlock shuffled out of the room, Joanna turned back to the others. “What about you?”
Ernie leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes. He looked as though he was barely awake. “I’m here now,” he said. “I could just as well go to work on something. God knows there’s enough for me to do.” Joanna had hoped he would go home to get some sleep, but she decided not to argue the point.
Turning to Voland, she realized that the sudden spurt of anger toward Governor Hickman’s deputy had helped clear her own head. “Anything from Patrol I should know about?” she asked.
“Dr. Lee dismissed Hal Morgan from the hospital a little while ago,” Voland answered. “According to Deputy Howell, he’s gone hack to his motel room, to the place he rented when he first came to town several days ago.”
After the intervening crisis with Hannah Green, Hal Morgan seemed worlds away. It took a few seconds for Joanna to switch gears. News that Hal Morgan had been turned loose meant that soon the heat would be turned back up on the Buckwalter murder investigation.
“What motel?” Joanna asked.
“The Rest Inn, out in the Terraces.”
“There’s still a deputy with him?”
“So far. Deputy Howell again.”
Joanna turned to Ernie. “Have you made arrangements to talk to Helen Barco yet?” she asked.
Ernie had been sitting there with his bloodshot eyes half-closed. Now they came open. “Why on earth would I want to talk to Helen Barco?”
Joanna turned back to Dick Voland. “Didn’t you tell him what I told you?”
Voland shook his head. “Sorry about that,” he said. “Things got so hectic around here that it must have slipped my mind.”
“What slipped your mind?” Ernie asked.
“Sheriff Brady is under the impression that Terry Buckwalter may have something going with Peter Wilkes, the golf pro out at the Rob Roy,” Voland said.
There was no sense in Joanna’s making a fuss about Dick Voland’s neglecting to pass along her lead to Ernie Carpenter. They were all so tired and so overworked right then that it was to be expected that some things would drop through the cracks. Still, she wasn’t going to sit there quietly and let Voland discount her suggestions.
“I know they’re up to something,” Joanna said. “Ernie, the reason I want you to go see Helen is that Terry Buckwalter had a complete makeover at Helene’s yesterday morning. She did it early enough so she could go out and play a round golf afterwards-the day after Bucky’s death. I’m under the impression that Terry told Helen something of her plans fl the future. Those plans need to be checked out.”