He didn’t have long to wait. The young man looked at the moving van, jotted down its license plate, and said, “Well, my goodness, we’re busy this afternoon.” He waved his hand at the truck, the house, and John Huff. “And just what are we up to here?”
“Well, I’m moving into my new house, and you’re trespassing,” said Huff. He believed in asserting himself at the earliest possible moment.
The reply was an unconvincing imitation of a smile. “I beg your pardon? I am trespassing? Do you know who I am?”
“No, I can’t help you there. Are you lost?”
The young man drew himself up to his full height-about five seven-and announced, “Sir, I am Randolph Custis Byrd, and I have the honor to be the assistant director of art and antiquities for the Commonwealth of Virginia. Now please tell me what is transpiring here. I thought the elderly ladies were going to wait for us to assist them in vacating the premises.”
“They didn’t wait. I guess with a million dollars they didn’t need any help with moving expenses from the state.”
R. Custis Byrd stared in disbelief. “A million dollars? Are you serious? But where would they…” He peered into the back of the moving van. “They didn’t sell you the furniture, did they?”
“No,” said Huff. “I didn’t want it. I’d rather furnish the house to my own taste.”
“Furnish the house?” echoed Byrd. “What are you talking about?” Two movers in gray coveralls clumped past them up the ramp and into the truck, and emerged balancing a recliner between them. Byrd watched them go with an expression of horror that the recliner’s upholstery did not quite merit. “Why are you moving a lounge chair into the state art museum?”
Now it was John Huff’s turn to look stricken. “Art museum? You must have come to the wrong house. Why, I paid a fortune for this house not two weeks ago!”
“I hope not. This was the Home for Confederate Women. The state has decided to claim it for the people of Virginia because of its historic value. I have the paperwork right here if you’d like to see it. In return for the house, we were planning to move the eight current residents to a nursing home outside Danville, and to pay for their care for the rest of their lives. The poor old dears ought to be on their way to Bingo Heaven right now. Where are they, by the way?”
John Huff set his jaw. “I tell you I bought this house.”
“Well, you’ve been taken in by a fraud, sir,” said Custis Byrd in tones bordering on sympathy. “Who sold it to you?”
“A Danville attorney named Bill MacPherson.”
A. P. Hill had returned to the twentieth century, exchanging her gray infantry uniform for the navy-blue coat and skirt that was her legal uniform. Reenacting was an enjoyable hobby, and a way for her to feel closer to her great-great-grandfather the general, but the present-day A. P. Hill had no desire to live permanently in the past. The Springfield rifle, the brogans, and the rimless spectacles had all been put away until next weekend’s reenactment, a scripted skirmish to take place at a battlefield that was now a national park. Now she had to return to a more crucial battle: the trial of Tug Mosier.
Because of the local sentiment about the case and the fact that the victim came from a prominent family, Powell had succeeded in getting a change of venue. Now the trial was scheduled for the end of the month in Stuart, a small town in Patrick County, some fifty miles west of Danville. She hoped that the new location would filter some of the emotion out of the case. At least she would have jurors who weren’t former classmates of Misti Hale or friends of the victim’s parents.
Now she had to decide how best to proceed with the defense. She was consulting a possible expert witness, Dr. Arthur Timmons, a Richmond psychiatrist who had some experience in criminal cases. As Powell Hill sat in his waiting room, leafing through old copies of Smithsonian, she wondered which would prove the more difficult task: coming up with a way to help her client or persuading a prominent physician to consult for nothing.
He had been cordial enough, though. Ushering her into his oak and green leather consulting room, he had listened carefully to her description of the Mosier case and the quandary over whether or not Tug was guilty of murder.
“And what do you want me to do, Miss Hill?” he asked when Powell’s explanation finally wound down.
“Well, I was wondering if you could examine my client and try to determine whether or not he did it. Give him some tests, perhaps.”
Arthur Timmons considered the matter for a few moments. “Tests,” he mused. “There are some measures that we could take to try to restore his memory of the night in question. Hypnosis. Using a drug to put him into a semiconscious state so that he can discuss that night without inhibitions. But are you sure you want to do that?”
“Why wouldn’t I?” asked A. P. Hill.
“Because he might remember. Right now you can plead your client innocent with perfect sincerity, since you have no conclusive evidence that he did it. But what are you going to do if I regress him, and he promptly confesses to the murder?”
A. P. Hill looked thoughtful. “I suppose I would have to concentrate on mitigating circumstances,” she said. “Diminished capacity. Accident. I’d have to know the circumstances before I could make any decision about how to proceed. I think, though, that Tug Mosier would like to go through with the tests, if possible. He’s grief-stricken over Misti Hale’s death, and he genuinely seems to want to know if he did it.”
Dr. Timmons scribbled a few notes and then looked up with a sad smile. “I think you’re taking a great risk by doing this,” he said. “It has been my experience that most trial lawyers aren’t interested in the truth. They’re interested in a game plan. But talk to your client, Miss Hill. If he truly wants to resolve the question of his guilt, I will do what I can to assist you.”
“There’s one other thing,” said Powell. “I’m court-appointed, you see, and we don’t have any money to spend on medical experts.”
“I assumed that,” said Timmons, still smiling. “Poor and honest seem to go together, don’t they?”
Edith came into the office, closed the door behind her, and stood with her back against it. Her expression brought to mind the expendable blonde in reel one of a horror movie.
“What is it?” chuckled Bill. “Mr. Trowbridge in person?”
Edith shook her head. “It’s that ornery man who bought the Home for Confederate Women, and if you thought he was bad before, you ought to see him now. He’s about ready to spit nails.”
“Oh, boy! I hope it isn’t termites. Did he say what he wanted?”
“No, but judging from his expression, I’d say he wants to use your scalp for pom-poms.”
“Hmm,” said Bill. “That doesn’t sound good. Is Powell here? No, of course not. She’s in Richmond, isn’t she? Well, let them in, and I’ll try to straighten this out.”
“Okay,” said Edith. “I just thought I’d warn you.” She mustered a wan smile and went out to face the visitors. Seconds later, Bill’s door burst open again, and John Huff stormed in, followed by an officious-looking young man with a clipboard.
“Hello, Mr. Huff,” said Bill, coming out from behind his desk with an outstretched hand. “What can I do for you?”
Huff ignored the friendly greeting and turned to his companion. “That’s him.”
Randolph Custis Byrd bustled forward and introduced himself in condescending tones. “Am I to understand that you sold the Home for Confederate Women to this gentleman last month for more than one million dollars?”