Chapter 2

Waking up the next morning I wondered if I had been dreaming. Had I really found the love of my life, was I now engaged to be married and would this incredible creature be back in my life (hopefully to stay), later that afternoon?

I always get up early so I arrived at the printing company around 7 am. I knew I had a lot to do today and wanted to try to get most of it done before Deena called me, sometime in the early afternoon.

My first customer was a fellow deputy (though full time, not part-time like me), who was there to pick up his business cards. As the largest and second oldest printing company in the county, we did most of the printing for local government agencies.

“Man, you really missed the excitement last night,” he said after I handed him his cards.

“What happened?” I asked.

“They arrested a 17 year old girl for murder after she killed her Mom,” he answered.

I really didn’t think anything about it, after all, there are lots of 17 year old girls in our county.

Like most cops, I assume, our world can be defined in three words: Means, Motive and Opportunity.

Did the person who allegedly committed a crime have the opportunity to do so, meaning was he or she there when the crime occurred.

Did they have the means to commit the crime? If the murder weapon is a knife, there should be a knife nearby. If a gun, then there should be some evidence the perp had access to a gun.

And perhaps most important, but sometimes the most difficult to prove was Motive. Why did the perp commit the crime? Was it a crime of passion, or a well thought out plot?

That last was how I made my next question. In fact I only said one word.

“Motive?”

“Ah, Man, you are not going to believe this,” my buddy said, “They think she had been stealing her Mom’s disability checks and buying stuff with the money.

“When she was arrested, she was wearing new sneakers, designer jeans and one of those North Face hoodies. One of those that cost way over a hundred dollars.

“She also had nearly $400 in her pockets and was wearing a big diamond ring.”

When my fellow deputy started with “new sneakers and designer jeans”, I still really didn’t think a lot about it.

The reference to the North Face hoodie, however, pretty much did the trick.

And yes, even at the outlet mall, the hoodie cost well over $100. In fact, Deena pitched a small fit that I would buy something so expensive for her. I knew, though, she had gotten a little cold on the ride up to Helen. The only things she was wearing were her shorts and her old, threadbare hoodie, and I insisted she have a new hoodie for the ride back. Plus the jeans to keep her legs from getting too cold.

The additional references to “nearly $400” and that she was wearing “a big diamond ring” merely emphasized there could be no doubt this was Deena he was talking about.

“You don’t ... you don’t remember her name, do you?” I asked the deputy.

“Watson or Wilson, or something like that,” he answered.

“Watkins?” I asked.

“Yes, now that you mention it, I believe it was Watkins,” he replied. “Why, do you know her?”

I brushed that question aside.

If I live to be 100 years old I don’t think I can ever forgive myself for my next thought.

And no, my first thought was NOT, “Deena couldn’t have done this,” or “Deena couldn’t hurt a fly.”

When I later tried to apologize to her for what I was actually thinking, Deena insisted that an apology was not necessary and she really couldn’t blame me for thinking what I had been thinking.

It was still less than 48 hours since I had received, up close and personal, evidence of Deena’s temper.

Remember what happened when I turned my back for two seconds in the hotel room, and then turned back to her? I had about 125 or so pounds of redhead rage hurtling directly towards my head and upper body.

I didn’t know then if that had been an anomaly or did my fiancée really have such a bad temper at other times.

No, to my eternal regret, my first thought was, “What did her Mom do that pissed Deena off so much?”

I am afraid I could easily imagine a scenario where Deena and her Mom got into a verbal altercation that turned into a physical altercation with Deena’s Mom even pushing or striking Deena.

I could see Deena reacting by trying to push her Mom away, and “Mom” stumbling and hitting her head on something and being killed. Especially considering how much Deena had told me about her Mom’s drinking and drug use.

I also knew, as a deputy, it was not all that unusual for a suspect to initially be charged with everything they could think of, plus the kitchen sink, as the old saying goes.

It is always easier to drop a murder charge down to involuntary manslaughter, than it is to upgrade an initial charge of involuntary manslaughter into murder.

I was thinking about that so much, I nearly missed the deputy’s next comment.

“We are pretty sure we even found the gun she used in her panty drawer,” he offered.

Gun? Deena?

I knew then Deena could NOT have killed her Mom.

Yes, I could understand how a physical altercation could turn out wrong, but Deena using a gun? Not NO, but HELL NO!

First, let me begin by explaining I am NEVER unarmed. Whether I was on duty as a deputy or not, I was packing.

In fact, that is how I met the Sheriff and became a reserve deputy sheriff.

After my discharge and after moving back home, the first thing I did was go to the Sheriff’s Department to see about having my concealed carry North Carolina permit (I had been stationed at Camp Lejeune) exchanged for a Georgia concealed carry permit.

While I was talking to the deputy at the desk, Sheriff Wayne Reynolds walked into the office. Although I had never met Sheriff Reynolds, I knew who he was since he had been sheriff almost as long as I had been alive.

I knew my father’s printing company printed all the campaign brochures, etc., for every election, plus almost everything else the Sheriff’s Department needed printing.

I had my Military Police badge, plus my North Carolina concealed carry permit on the desk, showing it to the deputy. Technically, I think I was supposed to turn the MP badge back in, following my discharge but they didn’t ask ... and I didn’t volunteer to turn it over.

The man I knew as Sheriff walked over and picked up both and looked at me and said, “MP in the Marines?”

I nodded yes.

“Have you considered coming to work for me?” he asked, “We can always use good deputies.”

I explained I was coming back to take over the printing company since my grandfather wanted to retire.

The Sheriff knew my grandfather and had known my father before his death, since, like I said, our printing company did all his, and the department’s printing.

“How about becoming a Reserve Deputy Sheriff?” he asked. “Usually we ask for two weekends a month but in exchange for that you get to keep your POST (Police Officer Standards and Training) certification and we actually pay our reserves on a one to two basis. For every one hour you work, you get two hours pay.”

I am thinking to myself, work eight hours and get 16 hours pay? Work a full weekend, 16 hours and get 32 hours pay?

Before I left the Sheriff’s Department, I had my Georgia concealed carry permit and had been sworn as the county’s newest deputy sheriff.

Anyway, like I said, I am NEVER unarmed.

And I wasn’t unarmed on the drive up to Helen with Deena sitting behind me. I was wearing a holster that fit in the small of my back (butt holster) and my favorite weapon, a Colt 1911 Military .45 was in the holster. No, it is not comfortable. And the gun kept digging into Deena’s stomach.

When we stopped for a few minutes to get something to drink at a convenience store, Deena asked what I had in my back pocket that kept sticking her in the stomach.

When I lifted my jacket to show her, Deena turned pale. Deena HATED guns, and started talking about how “guns kill people.” I immediately asked if pencils misspelled words and if spoons made people fat.

“There hasn’t been a single case in history where a gun just spontaneously killed anyone,” I told her. “In fact, just the opposite. Guns save hundreds of lives every year by allowing people to protect themselves.

“Guns DON’T kill people. Only people kill other people and it doesn’t matter if it is with a gun, a knife, a baseball bat or a car. And I have responded to every one of those situations just within the past year.

“Almost every lawman I know wishes more people carried guns, but only if they know what they are doing,” I continued, “The only lawmen who are anti-gun stopped being lawmen long before and are now just politicians.”

We argued the point for several minutes before finally agreeing to disagree.

She still refused to get back on the motorcycle with me unless I removed the gun and holster.

I finally had to put the holster and gun into the saddlebags on the cycle before resuming our trip.

Unbelievably, I had forgotten to retrieve the gun from the saddlebags when we went into the hotel, otherwise the gun would also have gotten a soaking when Deena and I forcefully hit the water. It wasn’t until later I remembered it, and Deena really didn’t like me to carry it at all.

She said it made her really nervous. When I tried to show it to her (after removing the magazine and unchambering the round inside), she didn’t want to touch it.

So the mere thought of Deena using a gun simply did not fly.

“Her Mom was shot?” I asked the deputy.

“Twice, in the heart!” he answered. “Actually pretty good shooting since there were no powder burns on the Mom’s body.”

The closer you are to the person you shoot, the more likely they are to have powder burns on their body. It can vary with different weapons, but generally the shooter must be within two or three feet to show powder burns.

The farther away you are, the less likely that will happen, but then that assumes you are a pretty good shot.

I considered it impossible Deena could accurately fire a weapon, striking her Mom twice in the heart and not be close enough to leave powder burns.

“Of course we won’t know if it is the actual murder weapon until ballistics tests come back,” the deputy continued, “but the daughter had enough sense to wipe the gun clean, but then tried to hide it in her panty drawer. But didn’t even close the drawer all the way!

“Pretty stupid, huh?” he added.

I knew Deena was anything BUT stupid. In fact, I already knew she was a lot smarter than me and if not a certified genius, she was so close it really didn’t matter.

“What does the ... the suspect say happened?” I finally ask.

“Oh, she is claiming she wasn’t even there Saturday night, but refused to say anything about where she was or who she was with,” the deputy answered.

“Saturday?” I asked, “Saturday?”

“Yes, the Mom was killed Saturday night,” he said, “Neighbors heard some loud voices and then gunshots about 9 pm Saturday.”

Deena and I were having dinner with Bob and Sue Saturday night and didn’t get back to the hotel until a little after 9 pm.

After that I couldn’t get the deputy out of the shop quickly enough.

I yelled at one of the other employees I would be gone for a few hours then ran outside and jumped into my truck.

Never in my life had I wanted to do anything more than I wanted to drive straight to the Sheriff’s Department and demand ... DEMAND ... that they let Deena go.

I also knew, however, THAT is not the way to get anything done.

As soon as I was in the truck, I hit the talk button on the steering wheel and said, “Call Bob.” The truck automatically dialed the number and as soon as Bob heard my voice he started to tell me a Marine Corps joke.

“Bob, Deena is in trouble and I need your help,” I interrupted.

Bob didn’t ask what was wrong, he just asked, “What can I do?”

“Deena ... Deena has been arrested and charged with murder,” I told him. He gasped and repeated the words and I could hear Sue in the background cry out as well.

“Bob, get this ... Deena’s Mom was murdered Saturday night ... around 9 pm,” I said.

“But ... but ... but you and Deena were here with us Saturday night,” he cried out.

“Do you still have the video cameras in the lobby and in the halls,” I asked. Bob had complained a lot about having to install the cameras in the hotel, but his insurance agent had insisted in case any guest ever claimed to have gotten hurt while on the premises.

“Yes!” Bob cried out, understanding immediately.

“Put together any videos of Deena and me from the time we got there Saturday morning until we left Sunday morning,” I asked. I knew that would probably be some huge files so I asked him to email that video to me.

“But first,” I said, “find the video of when we all came back from dinner and do a screen capture of that image and text it to me.”

I knew the security system put a time and date stamp on all the video, so that would prove we were in Helen when Deena’s Mom was killed.

Bob was already working on it before we even ended the call.

Once I arrived at my house, I started going through all my paperwork.

I have to admit I am sometimes obsessive in keeping up with receipts. If I stop and buy a coke, I demand a receipt. Anywhere I go and anything I buy, I demand receipts.

I also keep an accordion folder in my truck and usually file those receipts immediately in the appropriate place.

I had once been asked, by someone who saw the folder, if I suffered from OCD (Obsessive Compulsive Disorder).

I told him, “No, I have CDO.”

“What CDO?” he asked.

“That’s like OCD but the letters are in alphabetical order ... like they should be,” I answered.

That need to keep all the receipts can actually be traced back to my Dad since he had been audited several times by the IRS and the receipts showing the purchases he claimed as company expense had been the only thing that kept him from having to pay a fine and penalty on his taxes.

Yes, I had learned that lesson well from my Dad.

Obviously I couldn’t file the receipts while in Helen, since I was on my motorcycle, but as soon as I got back home Sunday night after dropping Deena off, I brought the folder inside and filed away every single receipt from Saturday and Sunday.

I found the receipt for the sneakers (time and date printed on receipt), and found the receipt for the designer jeans and hoodie, all showing time and date purchased.

Every meal we ate (except Saturday night since Bob and Sue paid), the receipt for the engagement ring, and even a receipt for ice cream cones we ate Saturday afternoon.

I also had both the actual pictures, plus the receipts from having the old timey photos taken Saturday afternoon as well.

While doing this my phone beeped and when I checked it was the image from Bob, clearly showing Deena and I in the hotel at 9:13 pm, Saturday night.

I sent that image to my printer, then took everything I had and put in an old leather briefcase that belonged to my Dad.

The final thing I did was open my safe and remove my department issued leather holster, my department issued service revolver and my department issued deputy’s badge. I grabbed a large rubber band and neatly rolled up the holster and revolver and put the badge on top, before securing all with the rubber band and put that in the briefcase as well.

Then I sat down and tried to prepare myself for what was coming.

The second worst day of my life happened about a month after my 17^th birthday. My Dad was in Savannah attending the yearly meeting of the Printing and Imaging Association of Georgia (PIAG). In fact, Dad was one of the keynote speakers that year.

He left Friday morning and by Saturday evening I was bored out of my mind.

So much so, that I “borrowed” his prize possession. Dad found it sitting in a junk yard in Dahlonega, Georgia. No tires, didn’t even have an engine nor transmission.

Dad spent years, and untold thousands and thousands of hours (not to mention probably the same amount of money according to my Mom), but when he was finished he had a fully restored 1977 Pontiac Firebird Trans Am, just like the one Burt Reynolds drove in the movie, Smokey and the Bandit.

That was the year Dad was born, and the car was identical to the one HIS father (my grandfather) bought that year, only to total the next year. Before he totaled the car, however, he had taken dozens of photos of my Dad sitting in, on top of, and beside the car and even sitting in the trunk.

Obviously Dad didn’t remember the car since he would only have a little over a year old when my grandfather wrecked it, but he grew up looking at the pictures and dreaming of having that kind of car when he got older.

Yes, I “borrowed” the car, which is a lot nicer way of saying it than I took it without permission or even stole it.

And within 30 minutes, wrecked it. Actually, it wasn’t that bad of a wreck. I was burning rubber when the rear end drifted more than I thought it would and I hit a parked car. Crumpled the left rear quarter panel.

Then I panicked. I jumped out of the car and ran. Never even considered that people had seen me, both driving and leaving the scene of the accident.

I ran all the way home, turned off all the lights and pretended no one was at home when deputies came to the door.

When Dad and Mom came back Sunday morning and noticed the car was no longer in the garage ... I lied.

When the deputies came back later Sunday, and had witnesses that I had been driving ... I still lied.

When the deputies came back WITH those witnesses ... I finally told the truth.

“That car is just a heap of metal and glass,” my Dad said and was speaking so softly I had to strain to hear the words. “The car can be fixed. But I don’t know if we can ever fix the fact that you lied to me. My own son ... my own son lied to me.”

By that point I would have given anything if Dad just took off his belt and beat the shit out of me.

He didn’t. He just looked at me, shook his head and walked off.

THAT hurt worse than any beating ever could have hurt.

For the next almost two weeks, Dad just ignored me. He would say “Good Morning,” in the morning, and “Good afternoon or Good Evening,” when he came home, but that was all.

For those next almost two weeks, I drove myself like a madman. After school, I mowed our yard, I mowed all the neighbors’ yards (and we had NO close neighbors), I weed-eated, I worked in the garden, I emptied the entire garage (four car garage) and painted inside and outside, then organized everything and put it back neatly.

I did everything I could to try to make it up to my Dad.

Finally, on Friday, the 13^th day after the wreck, Dad asked me a question while I was getting ready to go to school.

“Do you have any plans for this weekend?” he asked.

I didn’t have any plans, but even if I had planned dating Miss Teen America, it wouldn’t have mattered.

“No, Sir,” I said.

“My old friend Burt said the stripers are really biting now.” Dad said. I knew “stripers” were otherwise called striped bass.

I knew Burt had been one of my Dad’s buddies while they were in the Marines together. Burt owned a fishing camp at Santee-Cooper in South Carolina. The Santee and Cooper rivers were part of the federally funded New Deal construction projects under Roosevelt. Two huge lakes, Lake Marion and Lake Moultrie, were formed and the damns built provided electricity for large parts of South Carolina.

A historical note: Lake Marion is named after legendary Revolutionary War hero, Francis Marion, who is otherwise known as “The Swamp Fox.” Never heard of him? If you have ever seen the Mel Gibson movie, “The Patriot,” then that is a very loose retelling of the Swamp Fox legend.

“Would you like to go fishing this weekend?” my Dad asked.

I am 17 and I will not cry. I am 17 and I will not cry. I AM 17 AND I WILL NOT CRY!

And I didn’t. Yes, my voice broke when I said, “Yes, Sir, I would like that very much.”

“Good,” Dad said, “can you get all our fishing equipment together after school and make sure everything is ready?”

“Yes, Sir!” I answered.

I made it as far as hearing the sound of his truck door slam before I broke down completely and bawled like a baby.

That day, which began on so positive of a note, would soon become THE worst day of my life.

Shortly before lunch I heard my name on the intercom, telling me to report to the principal’s office.

When I walked in, my mother was there – crying. My grandfather was there – he wasn’t crying, but you could tell he had been.

I heard words like “massive heart attack,” and “he’s gone.”

“No, NO!” I screamed. “We’re going fishing ... we’re going fishing ... we’re going fishing.”

I never really got to make it up to my Dad. I will never know if he had actually forgiven me, not for wrecking the car, but for lying about it.

And I swore I would never lie again ... about anything. I later had to amend that some. If someone asks you how their clothes or haircut looks, it is generally not a good idea to answer that it “makes them look retarded.”

Especially if it is a girl! Guys can take it, guys even expect it. Girls don’t seem to understand though.

The three people I most respected in this world are, in order, my Dad, my Grandfather ... and Sheriff Wayne Reynolds.

I had already disappointed my Dad with my lies, and now I knew I was about to disappoint Sheriff Reynolds with the truth.

That I had been with a 17 year old girl.

Yeah, the Sheriff’s Department takes very seriously the notion of a “person of authority” becoming involved with a young girl – regardless of the circumstances. I have attended more than one mandatory training class about “improper contact” with young girls.

Before I knew it I was sitting in the parking lot at the Sheriff’s Department.

I walked inside and told his secretary I needed to see Wayne immediately.

When I walked into his office, Wayne stood up and stuck out his hand, asking, “Hey, what’s up, Jack?”

I could see the surprise in his eyes, after we shook hands, when I said, “Sheriff, we need to talk.”

The department had always been very informal. Usually, it was always “Wayne,” and “Jack.” My using his title, instead of his name, tipped him off that this was anything but normal.

“You are holding Deena Watkins on suspicion of murder,” I began, and he nodded.

“Before I go any further, there is something else I must do first,” I said.

I opened the briefcase and pulled out my holster, gun and badge and placed them on his desk.

He had a somewhat stunned look on his face.

“This is so you won’t have to ask for it,” I said, then added, “Deena ... Deena is now my fiancée and was with me all weekend in Helen.”

He turned somewhat pale.

“Jesus, Jack, she is only 17!” he exclaimed.

“I know that now,” I offered, “but she told me she was 18 at first.”

Then I remembered my pledge to not lie.

“But, yes, I knew how old she actually was before ... before we became involved.”

Item by item, I went through everything I had, starting with the print out from the security camera Saturday night showing the four of us, Bob and Sue, me and Deena, and pointed out the time and date stamp in the upper right hand of the photo.

“Bob, the owner, is sending me all the actual video from Saturday morning, when we arrived, until Sunday morning, when we left,” I continued.

I showed him the receipts from all the clothes, plus the receipt from the purchase of the engagement ring.

“I also put the $400 in her purse,” I added.

“I can’t believe this,” Wayne finally said, “you willfully became involved with a 17 year old.”

“Age of consent in Georgia is 16,” I reminded him.

Now Wayne’s face flushed red.

“Don’t quote the law to ME,” he said, rather angrily, “I was Sheriff while you were still wearing diapers. We are lawmen and held to a higher standard than civilians.”

He turned even redder.

I couldn’t help but remember all the times we had gone fishing at his cabin on Lake Lanier.

From almost the first day at the department, Wayne had been not just my boss, but also my friend. In fact, one of my best friends.

“I will not apologize for becoming involved with Deena,” I told him. “I am sorry for disappointing you, but I am not sorry for falling in love with Deena.”

He looked at me for a minute or two before finally nodding his head.

“What’s done is done,” he said. Then to my surprise he held out his hand and offered congratulations on my engagement.

“I am still not happy that you would become involved with someone so much younger than you,” he added, “but I know that sometimes the heart is beyond our control.

“I’ve watched part of the interrogation through the two-way mirror,” Wayne added, “and I knew she was protecting someone ... I just never imagined that ‘someone’ was you.”

I explained my unfortunate comment to Deena that she “held my life in her hands,” and that if anyone found out that I was becoming romantically involved with a 17 year old it could cause me trouble.

“I never ... I never imagined she would take it to heart so much ... that she would try to protect me even while she was facing a possible murder charge,” I added.

“Where is Deena?” I finally asked.

Wayne said she was in Interrogation Room A, along with Ron and Jeff. Ron was Captain Ron Harris, Chief of Detectives, and number three in the hierarchy of the department. Jeff was Sergeant Jeff Bates, also with the detective division.

“She hasn’t budged an inch from her story,” Wayne told me. “Insists she was not home and had, in fact, spent the weekend with someone but absolutely refuses to reveal who that someone was.

“We put her on ice for a while, until four this morning, then Ron and Jeff have spent (looking at his watch) the past six hours trying to get her to confess.”

The “put her on ice” remark was indicative of one of the most successful moves to get a person ready to talk. When a person is first arrested, they are often angry and defiant. A few hours in solitary has a remarkable effect in making a person feel hopeless and alone.

Often, not always, but often that person will be so happy just to talk to someone they will forget themselves and admit to whatever they have been charged with.

Wayne buzzed his secretary and told her to have Ron and Jeff immediately report to his office.

Ron was probably in his late 50s or early 60s while Jeff was closer to my age.

Like I said, Wayne ran a very informal department. When the two detectives entered his office they both shook my hand amid a couple of “How’s it going, Jack,” and “How’s it hanging.”

I think they were both surprised with my responses of “Captain Harris” and “Sergeant Bates.”

I think they also both noticed my holster and badge, still sitting on the Sheriff’s desk.

“How is the interrogation going,” Wayne asked.

“Damn, she is one tough nut to crack,” answered Ron. “In fact, if it weren’t for the physical evidence ... the gun, the clothes, the money and ring ... I would actually tend to believe her when she said she was with someone all weekend. That she wasn’t even home.

“I just can’t imagine why ... why she would continue to try to protect this person while facing a murder rap.”

“I can answer that,” I said. “She is trying to protect her fiancé because he made the incredibly stupid statement that if anyone found out he, a law enforcement officer, was involved with a 17 year old, it could make things very difficult for him. He even used the unfortunate term she ‘held his life in her hands,’ while explaining about young girls becoming involved with a ‘person of authority.’”

Incredibly, Wayne made the comment, “but she first told him she was 18, not 17.”

I couldn’t believe it. Wayne was actually trying to protect me!

“If you haven’t figured it out yet,” I added, “I am Deena’s fiancé and the person she is trying to protect. And yes, we spent the entire weekend together. Friday night at my place, and all day Saturday, Saturday night and Sunday morning in Helen.”

Then, for the next 30 minutes, I went through all the evidence again, this time with Ron and Jeff, proving we were in Helen. All the receipts plus the screen shot showing we were at the hotel at the time of the murder.

We also discussed the fact someone had obviously tried to frame Deena for the murder, assuming the gun in her panty drawer was, in fact, the murder weapon.

Deena had repeatedly stated she had no idea who might have wanted to kill her mother.

We decided that there wasn’t much else to discuss. At least until the forensics test came back on the gun.