The final entry was dated fourteen months earlier.
Miller read it slowly.
"August ninth. Sheriff arrested Mrs. Hattie Greene at her property on Cypress Creek Road."
He stopped.
Then continued.
"She was eighty-one. She was standing on her porch telling surveyors to leave her land."
Nobody moved.
"She was charged with obstruction and disorderly conduct."
Miller looked down.
"She was not disorderly. She was crying."
I felt something tighten in my chest.
I knew that name.
Hattie Greene.
I had read it in one of the thirty-one letters Aunt Lorraine sent to Atlanta.
Miller turned the page.
"At booking, she said she needed her heart medication. It was in her purse."
He swallowed.
"The sheriff said she could wait until the jail nurse arrived."
He looked up.
"The nurse didn't come on weekends."
Voss stared at him.
Miller continued.
"August tenth. Mrs. Greene asked for her pills four times. I asked the sheriff twice."
His voice broke.
"He told me she would live."
Miller stopped.
For a moment, the only sound was the clock above the booking desk.
Then he read the last lines.
"August eleventh. Three fifteen in the morning. Mrs. Greene found unresponsive in cell three."
He took a breath.
"August thirteenth. Mrs. Greene died."
The room went still.
Miller looked at the sheriff.
"He told everybody on shift not to mention the medication."
He lowered his eyes.
"He said the report would say she had been found unresponsive with no prior complaint."
Nobody spoke.
I thought about the letter.
A boy had written it.
He was seventeen.
He had written that his great-grandmother died in the county jail.
He had written that she called his mother and said the deputies had taken her pills.
He had written that nobody would listen.
Then he had written one more thing.
They sold her land.
I looked at Greer.
He was already reading the entry again.
Then he looked at Voss.
"What is Pinecrest Holdings?"
The sheriff didn't answer.
Delgado opened her portfolio.
"Pinecrest Holdings LLC was registered two years ago."
She turned a page.
"The registered agent is Wade Purcell."
She looked at Voss.
"Your brother-in-law."
The sheriff's face changed.
The deputy at the computer made a small sound.
Delgado continued.
"Over the last two years, Pinecrest acquired eleven parcels of land in Pell County."
She paused.
"About six hundred and forty acres."
Greer looked at the notebook.
Delgado read from her notes.
"Every parcel belonged to someone who had been arrested by this department within the twelve months before losing the property."
I stared at her.
She turned another page.
"Every parcel is also along the proposed Georgia Power transmission corridor and the new state highway bypass."
The sheriff shook his head.
"That has nothing to do with me."
Delgado continued.
"The land along that corridor is now worth several times what Pinecrest paid."
I felt sick.
The pieces were beginning to fit.
A person was arrested.
Bail was set too high.
The person remained in jail.
They missed work.
They lost income.
They fell behind on taxes.
Their property was sold.
And Pinecrest Holdings was waiting.
It was not complicated.
It was cruel.
And it had been happening in a county where people were too afraid to speak.
Delgado looked at the sheriff.
"Mrs. Greene's forty-two acres were sold at an estate sale four months after her death."
She read the price.
"Sixty-one thousand dollars."
Then she read the amount Georgia Power had offered for an easement across part of that property.
"Two hundred and thirty-eight thousand dollars."
Voss shook his head.
"That's my brother-in-law's business."
Greer placed a document on the desk.
"Then perhaps you can explain why your department's bank records show three wire transfers from Pinecrest Holdings to an account in your wife's name."
He paused.
"The total was one hundred and eighty-seven thousand five hundred dollars."
Voss went white.
I watched him.
For the first time, he looked frightened.
Not embarrassed.
Not angry.
Afraid.
I understood then that the investigation was much larger than the arrest of one woman in a diner.
My arrest had brought the sheriff's department into the open.
But the people who had lost their homes had been paying the price for years.
And one of them had died.
Voss looked at Miller.
"You knew about this?"
Miller didn't answer.
"You knew?"
"I wrote it down."
The sheriff took a step forward.
Calloway stopped him.
"That's enough."
Voss looked around the room.
The clerk was still writing.
The agents were gathering documents.
Delgado was checking the warrant.
Greer had the notebook.
Nobody was waiting for the sheriff to give permission anymore.
I sat quietly.
My wrists hurt.
My left hand was swelling.
I wanted to leave.
I wanted to see my aunt.
But I also wanted to know what would happen to the people whose names were in that notebook.
I wanted to know whether Hattie Greene's family would ever get their land back.
I wanted to know whether Terrence Holloway would ever see the money taken from his truck.
I wanted to know whether the sheriff would be held responsible.
I knew better than to expect an immediate answer.
A federal investigation was not a television show.
There would be records.
Interviews.
Subpoenas.
Months of work.
Possibly years.
And the people who had been hurt would have to wait.
Again.
Calloway approached me.
"Judge, we should get your wrist examined."
I looked at my hand.
It was beginning to swell around the cuff marks.
"Yes."
She turned to Miller.
"Deputy, do you have anything else?"
He shook his head.
"Not right now."
Calloway nodded.
"Your notebook will be preserved as evidence. We'll need to interview you."
Miller looked at Voss.
The sheriff was staring at him.
I could see the fear in Miller's face.
I could also see something else.
Relief.
He had finally told the truth.
And now he had to live with what came next.
The agents began moving through the building.
They collected records.
They photographed the booking desk.
They took the dispatch logs.
They secured the computers.
A technician opened the evidence room.
Another agent began inventorying the phones.
Voss stood near the wall.
His badge was still pinned to his uniform.
His gun was still at his side.
But the room no longer belonged to him.
Delgado spoke quietly to Greer.
I heard her mention the governor's office.
Then she turned toward Voss.
"Your department has been notified that you are being suspended pending the investigation."
Voss stared at her.
"You can't do that."
"The governor can."
She paused.
"Your badge and weapon will be collected."
Voss looked at the deputies.
Nobody moved.
Then Calloway held out her hand.
For a moment, he didn't respond.
Finally, he unpinned the badge.
He placed it in her palm.
The metal made a small sound.
That was all.
No speech.
No shouting.
No dramatic announcement.
Just a badge changing hands.
Voss looked at me.
"You set me up."
I shook my head.
"No."
He took a step closer.
"You came here to get me."
"I came here to help my aunt."
He stared at me.
"I came to pick up her medication and eat lunch."
I looked at the diner across the road in my mind.
The red booth.
The water glass.
The plate of catfish.
"You made your decision when you put those cuffs on me."
He said nothing.
I thought of Hattie Greene.
Of the four times she had asked for her medication.
Of the boy who had written the letter.
Of the notebook that had waited fourteen months for someone to read it.
Voss turned away.
He walked out of the booking area.
Nobody followed him.
Not immediately.
The FBI technicians continued their work.
The building was full of people who had finally been allowed to do their jobs.
And I was still sitting in the chair.
My wrist was broken.
My lunch was gone.
My purse was on the desk.
I looked at Miller.
He looked back.
Neither of us spoke.
Source: kaylestore.net
Click here to continue reading: PART 4: The Sheriff Lost His Badge That Afternoon, but the Truth About the Woman Who Died in His Jail Was Only Beginning to Come Out
I Thought Keeping Quiet Would Protect Me, Until a Sheriff Decided My Silence Meant I Had Something to Hide
Part 3 of 13
