My law practice in Brightown, North Carolina had slowed—my clients were all awaiting trial or some other proceedings. My young-lawyer colleague, Adam Bates, was overseeing the office affairs. And so, I simply got in my car and drove and kept on driving, following an impulse I had indulged more than once. I drove southward to Laurinburg and then west along Route 74, across the Fall Line, through Union County, past Charlotte, past Gastonia. By then it was dark, and as I neared Lake Lure, my eyelids were drooping, so I pulled into a rest stop to take a nap. But as I sat dozing, I heard a tapping at my window. I came fully awake and saw a man’s face in the glass. It was a hardened face, with flesh that sagged a bit and eyes that were lively, alert. In his broad-brimmed hat, the man looked like a son of the Old West. I rolled the window down far enough to be heard.
“Yes, sir,” I said.
“I’m sorry to bother you, sir. My car broke down about a mile down the road. Can you give me a lift to the nearest service station?—I need a tow.”
“All right,” I said, after a moment’s hesitation. I unlocked the door on the other side and started the engine.
“Much obliged, sir,” he said, as he settled in the front seat. “I’m from Texas. I spend more time on a horse than I do in a car. My name’s Tom Doyle.”
“I’m Anson Wellman. I practice law in Brightown. What brings you to North Carolina?”
“Well—uh, as a matter of fact, I’m looking for my daughter.”
“Oh?—is she in danger?”
“She rode off with her boyfriend—on the back of a motorcycle. Not the safest place to be, and I’m not real fond of her boyfriend.”
I drove onto the highway and back toward Rutherfordton. “What makes you think she’s in this part of the country?”
“She was in school here—at Harrison College.”
“Oh, yes—that’s way up in the mountains.”
“She’s been seen along here—and up toward Grandfather Mountain.”
We reached a cluster of gas stations, some with tow trucks parked near them. I pulled onto the asphalt shoulder. “You should find a tow here. I’ll wait to make sure.”
Tom Doyle climbed out of the car and walked toward one of the stations. He was tall and lean, and his limbs seemed barely connected to the rest of him. Yet his stride was firm, almost military. He entered the station’s office, and, after a few minutes, reappeared at the door and waved. I waved back and drove away. I found a Wal-Mart near town and bought shaving gear, clean socks and underwear. I stopped at a decent motel, slept well, and early the next morning, shaved, and showered, I checked out and had breakfast at McDonald’s.
Riding west on Route 74, the first hint of the beauty of the Southern mountains comes in the high foothills around Lake Lure. As I slowed down to stare at the near hills and the mountains not too far away—all dressed in their fresh early-summer green—a motorcycle roared past me. It was a Harley, steered by a man whose dark hair extended below his helmet. Behind the man sat a woman, clinging to him, her blond hair streaming in the wind. I realized, of course, that the couple that passed me might well be Tom Doyle’s runaway daughter and her boyfriend.
West of Lake Lure, I took Route 64 over the Henderson County plateau and all the way to Highlands in Macon County, stopping there for food. In the summer season, the town became a haven for employable college students. My waitress was a jolly college girl who wore eyeglasses and had braces on her teeth. I had left the diner and was returning to my car, when a motorcycle entered the parking lot, the same one that had passed me earlier. It pulled into a nearby space, and the two riders climbed off, removed their blue helmets, and hung them on the handlebars. The young man had hair to his shoulders, a leather jacket over his T-shirt, and denim trousers that sagged from prolonged wear. The young woman wore cleaner denim trousers and a Harrison College sweatshirt. Her blond hair was long and tied back, and she was very pretty.
“Are you Miss Doyle,” I ventured.
They both stopped abruptly and stared at me.
“Yes,” the woman replied. “How did you know?”
“I met your father—back near Lake Lure.”
“I didn’t realize he was so close.”
“He’s worried about you.”
The man had been silent and hangdog, but at this point, he spoke up. “Look, man—this is none of your business.”
“You’re right, but I thought I’d take an interest anyway.”
“Maybe you’d better leave.”
“I’ll leave when I’m good and ready,” I said—I have a very low crap-tolerance. “Miss Doyle, were you abused in some fashion?”
“No—Daddy and Momma were always good to me. I just figured hitting the road would be fun.”
“We both wanted freedom from the straightjacket of luxury,” the boyfriend chimed in. “The middle class is the enemy of culture—of art, literature, of truth.”
“Then we should be suspicious of that culture and its bogus truths,” I said. “Anyway, maybe I’ll see you both down the road.”
There were mumblings behind me as I got back in my car and drove away. I took Route 441 to Cherokee, spent the night, at a motel on Route 19, and, early the next morning, had breakfast at a restaurant owned by a genuine Cherokee, who appeared in full feather. I still recall his face—an absolute deadpan, much like Buster Keaton. But the breakfast was pure country—scrambled eggs, country ham, grits with red-eye gravy, and biscuits. After that, I drove onto the Blue Ridge Parkway and away to the southeast and Richland Balsam Mountain and then northeast toward Mount Mitchell, stopping at several vantage points to view the mountains and the tiny towns in the valleys. After getting my fill of the scenery, I took Route 80 down the mountains to I-40 and hurried back to business in Brightown.
A few months after my travels, I happened to be in my office—I had been in court much of the time—when the door opened and in walked Tom Doyle. By that time, early summer had turned to early autumn. The first touch of color had appeared on the hardwood trees of Brightown, and the summer heat had dwindled to the upper sixties. Tom was tanned by a summer in the Texas sun and wore his usual broad-brimmed hat, along with a suit and western boots. His visit wasn’t a social call. He had finally caught up with his daughter—she was in jail. She and her boyfriend had run out of money and, being too proud to ask for more, had robbed a convenience store, using a built-to-scale toy pistol.
“Where are they now?” I asked, struggling to maintain a professional calm.
“In jail near Harrison—in Balsam County.”
“I met the two of them after I left you. Maybe I should’ve given them a few bucks.”
“They created their own situation. Will you take their case?”
“Yes—certainly. My retainer is—uh, let’s say a few hundred.”
“O.K. with me.”
“Fine—you can discuss it with Effie Arnold, my paralegal and secretary. I need the names of your daughter and her boyfriend.”
“Andrea Patricia Doyle and Lucas Canfield.”
“All right,” I said, jotting down the names. “I’ll fly there tomorrow morning.”
“There’s no airline that flies there.”
“I have my own plane.”
And so, early the next morning, I drove to the Bright County Airport—a busy place with several terminals and runways—parked my car in the long-term lot, and took off in my Cessna 182. An hour later, after a splendid flight over the autumn colors, I touched down at the Balsam County Airport. It was a quiet place with a single runway and no control tower. I rented a car and drove to the county courthouse, where I first spoke to the prosecutor and got a copy of the arrest report. The jailer admitted me to Andrea Doyle’s cell and locked the door behind me. I introduced myself, and she, of course, expressed surprise at seeing me.
“Will we go to jail?” she asked finally, looking worn and worried. She was still wearing that Harrison College sweatshirt.
“You’re already in jail,” I said. “Will you get a prison sentence? Not necessarily—I take it neither you nor Lucas has a criminal record.”
“That’s right.”
“Maybe we can get a suspended sentence and probation. Robbery is a serious offense—what made you do anything that foolish.”
“I don’t know—I guess we just needed the money. It sounded like fun. Lucas thought it was proper to take from a corrupt system.”
“Uh-huh—now look, this is the North Carolina Mountains. People here display the flag and vote Republican. Don’t go spouting any Commie nonsense. You’ll simply prejudice people and make my job tougher.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ll give you my best advice and my best efforts. But don’t do or say anything that will put you in further jeopardy.”
The jailer admitted Lucas Canfield to the cell and again locked the door.
“Lucas,” I said, “Mr. Doyle has retained me to act in Andrea’s behalf. I’ll do the same for you—if you so choose.”
“O.K.—fine with me,” he replied—with some indifference.
“Tomorrow, at your appearance before the magistrate, you’ll be freed on bail, assuming the amount is within reason. After that you will please stay out of trouble. I would rather you spend the time at Tom Doyle’s ranch in Texas. I’m going to skip the preliminary hearing. The evidence is undeniable—and our best hope is in exchanging a guilty plea for a lighter sentence. And when you appear here again, I want you, Andrea, in a dress and you, Lucas, in a coat and tie—and with a haircut.”
“Will there be a trial?” Lucas asked.
“Only if you plead ‘not guilty’ and request one. I don’t recommend it. Trials are expensive and frivolous ones try the patience of the court. In your case, a not-guilty plea would be ludicrous.”
“Maybe another lawyer would see things differently.”
“I doubt it—but you do get one phone call.”
“Lucas,” Andrea said, “I think you’d better count your blessings and go with Mr. Wellman.”
“Yeah—all right. I guess we’re a team.”
“Good—we’re due in court tomorrow morning. I’ll see you then.”
As I expected, Andrea and Lucas were bound over for Superior Court. The bail was set at ten thousand, and Tom Doyle arrived to post it. The wait for our next appearance would be from four to seven months. In the meantime, a grand jury indicted my two clients—as grand juries usually do. By this time, Andrea and Lucas were both in Texas, working under Tom Doyle’s gaze. I stayed in Harrison long enough for talks with the arresting officers and the prosecutor. The latter man, a youthful assistant DA with a degree from Yale, was willing to go along with an agreement—a guilty plea in exchange for a suspended sentence and probation. The question was—what kind of probation? Would it be supervised or unsupervised? Of course, I was urging the latter—reasonable enough, since both defendants had clean records up to the time of that stupid robbery.
Their story was a little more complicated than I had realized. Some years ago, when Andrea had just learned to walk and talk, her mother, Marjorie Doyle, left Tom and headed for Hollywood—“while she still had her good looks,” she said at the time. They never divorced, but remained estranged. Marjorie eventually appeared in a few easily forgotten films—one about a romance involving her character and an Alien, another about an attack on earth by giant cockroaches imported by a returning Mars probe. Not progressing beyond that level, and realizing she was adrift in an ocean of beautiful women, some talented, she went to work at an agency, and found she had a gift for discovering and peddling movie talent. She grew wealthy on her own and invited Andrea to visit from time to time. On one of these visits, Andrea met Lucas Canfield, son of a film producer and director. Lucas lived and socialized on the Hollywood fringes where he presented some distinction, though he had no ambitions beyond those common to all adolescents. He did give the appearance of a romantic figure, what with his motorcycle and his fine physique—both gifts from his well-heeled, well-formed Hollywood parents.
Once they heard about Lucas’s predicament, they wanted to send their own Hollywood lawyer to Harrison to take up his defense. I sent word to Tom Doyle that this would be a very bad idea. A brash lawyer from Tinseltown—especially one of disagreeable ethnicity—would likely do more harm than good. Tom called Marjorie to express my thoughts, and she calmed down the Canfields. The victims and the prosecutor, the defendants and I, would all have our say, and the judge would make his decision in the mountain quiet.
As to the crime itself—the specifications showed that on the evening of September 17, 2008, at approximately 2200 hours, the subjects entered Ma’s Quick Stop and displayed what the victims thought was an automatic pistol. The two women working at the time were in the process of closing for the night, and there were no customers in the store. One of the women, Ma Finley, handed over a fistful of currency, including some marked bills, and the subjects took several food items, left the store, and rode away on a motorcycle. When arrested, the subjects were in possession of the marked bills and the food items.
I visited Ma’s Quick Stop and spoke to the owner. Ma wasn’t all that angry—just puzzled and a little annoyed. As she said, nothing like that robbery ever happened around there. As for the other woman—of all things, a policeman’s wife—she, too, was mostly puzzled. They were the kindly type of ladies found all over North Carolina. Both were over fifty with gray hair and faces worn by childbirth, raising a family, and tending to business. I tried to convince them that the two perpetrators weren’t all bad—merely naive and maybe spoiled by their parents. We parted on fairly good terms, considering my function in the case.
At one point in my conversations with Andrea and Lucas, I had to ask, “What made you think you could get away with this?”
“We thought we’d be long gone—clean to Tennessee before word got out.”
That was Lucas’s reply—what a dunce. But that kind of stupidity, when presented in court, might help their case. As it happened, they were arrested just west of Banner Elk and returned to Balsam County. I was tempted to tell Lucas that crime should be left to professionals—students of the art—amateurs almost always got caught.
Tom Doyle made sure they arrived at the Balsam County Courthouse at 0900 on May 4, 2009. That was an hour before the scheduled arraignment. I had already had a conference with the prosecutor and the judge, a firm-faced man of sixty from Caswell County, who was uncomfortable with my request for unsupervised probation. The defendants were dressed as I had insisted—Lucas now had short hair—and they both looked clean-cut and respectable. When the court convened, they pleaded guilty to common-law robbery, and to my surprise, the judge postponed sentencing until the following day—a good sign. He was still mulling over the nature of the probation. The postponement came after Andrea and Lucas apologized to the victims for their deeds. Their apology was given force by their appearance—not only their clothes, but also their tanned and healthy look. They had worked in the cotton fields and grasslands of central Texas, and Lucas had actually learned to ride a horse. I was a bit proud of my two clients, having coached them in their statements.
And so, when the court convened the next morning, the judge pronounced a sentence of two years in prison, suspended, and two years of unsupervised probation. Andrea and Lucas were free to go back to Texas and, presumably, to work on Tom Doyle’s ranch. The victims were somewhat dazed, not quite understanding the judge’s words. I said good-bye to Tom Doyle and his wife Marjorie—she had quietly arrived to follow the latest proceedings. They were both happy with the outcome and with my services.
Alas, their happiness would diminish when they received my bill. Believe it or not, I always mailed such bills with a heavy heart. I had come to wonder what I was truly accomplishing as a lawyer. The core principles of law were simple. It’s their simplicity that made the jury system viable. Still, I mailed the bills—after all, I had an office, my assistants, and an airplane to support.
But what became of my clients—Andrea Doyle and Lucas Canfield? As it happened, they spent their probation time working at Tom Doyle’s ranch, scouting the cotton fields, herding cattle. They lived together as man and wife, though, despite Tom’s annoyance, they refused to marry. Marjorie Doyle of Hollywood didn’t care, as her own private life was—uh, filled with variety. But not long after their probation ended, Andrea and Lucas parted. Andrea stayed in Texas, married a cowboy, and made Tom Doyle a grandfather—to his great delight. Lucas returned to Hollywood, remained on the fringes, and eventually became one of those drug-dealers to the stars. He was recently arrested for possession of a hundred grams of cocaine and sentenced to ten years in prison—for a non-violent crime, involving a substance no more dangerous than tobacco or alcohol. But he does have a pricey Hollywood lawyer working on his appeal.
